


31 Days of Ficmas (2020)

by gingerteaandsympathy



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Audio 029: The Chimes of Midnight, Blind Date, Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire, Childhood Sweethearts, Christmas Caroling, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Morning, Christmas Tree, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Lovers, Episode: s01e14 The Christmas Invasion, F/F, F/M, First Dates, Hopeful Ending, Kid Fic, Kissing at Midnight, Male-Female Friendship, Marriage Proposal, Meet-Cute, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mistletoe, Moving, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, On Set, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pete's World (Doctor Who), Pete's World Torchwood, Pining, Pregnancy, Reunions, Shakespeare Quotes As Seduction, Snowed In, Traditions, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:21:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 50,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27820651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerteaandsympathy/pseuds/gingerteaandsympathy
Summary: In which the Doctor and Rose (and friends!) celebrate the holidays, all through time and space.Based on the prompt list "31 Days of Ficmas, 2020 Edition" by doctorroseprompts on tumblr.
Relationships: Eighth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Eleventh Doctor/Rose Tyler, Metacrisis Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Mickey Smith & Rose Tyler, Ninth Doctor & Jack Harkness & Rose Tyler, Ninth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Thirteenth Doctor/Rose Tyler, Twelfth Doctor/Rose Tyler
Comments: 264
Kudos: 119
Collections: 31 Days of Ficmas 2020





	1. Snowed In

**Author's Note:**

> honestly, this work might more accurately be called "31 days of hubris." i rarely complete challenges, but seeing as the pandemic has sort of wrecked the holidays this year, i wanted to try to capture the magic! and, with any luck, share some of it with you! so, hopefully you enjoy these little snippets of holiday fluff, for as long as they last.
> 
> prompt: snowed in  
> pairing: ten x rose  
> rating: general
> 
> _in which the doctor and rose are snowed in, cocoa is had, and foot rubs ensue._

"Day one," the Doctor dictates, eyes flashing up at the pale column of the time rotor, which emits only a weak light. "We're snowed in. Morale is high and the crew is hopeful that we will be dug out soon, though as the Captain, it is my duty to be realistic: we could be trapped here for quite some time. But while we wait—"

He pauses to grin at Rose where she stands in the doorway, holding twin mugs of hot cocoa. Her teeth glint white in the low light; the force of her smile somehow makes the console room feel less dim, less chilly, and he's approaching before she can even open her mouth to say, "Drinks?"

"Yes, ta." He hums appreciatively at the feel of the warm ceramic, and the rich, sweet scent of chocolate in the chill air. "Mm, with extra whipped cream."

"No other way to do it."

"Much as I appreciate this, we probably should be conserving the power," he chides, though not before taking a long, indulgent sip. It's toe-curlingly delicious. "As in—not using the kettle."

Rose's answering grin is impish. "I didn't. I used the stove."

"That's _worse,_ " he groans. But there's no heat in it; he can already feel the hot drink soothing the edges of his worry, helped along by the unapologetic look of pleasure on Rose's face when she licks at her mountain of whipped cream.

Anyway, the residual heat from the stove will probably keep them warm a little while. Which, he has a feeling, they will be grateful for if they're stuck longer than expected.

As they settle on the jumpseat together, her legs stretched out over his lap, she finally lets out a little huff. "So. How bad is it, really?"

" _Well_ ," the Doctor starts, but when he sees the concern that's put a divot in her brow, he shrugs instead. "We've been in worse scrapes, you and me. I've re-routed most of the power to the external shields in the hopes that it'll melt everything off and get us fit for flying again. But the ice storm we landed in will probably keep us grounded for a few hours."

"I don't get it—I thought the TARDIS didn't _fly,_ just sort of… disappeared and reappeared." Rose looks musingly at the consol, and though he knows she doesn't understand even the smallest part of what his ship is, what it can _do,_ he appreciates the fondness in her gaze. Like she considers the timeship to be her friend, albeit a mysterious one.

"And you'd be right, except that I had her all locked down for a longer stay before I realized—"

"—that you overshot the Avalonian Solstice Festival by two billion years—yeah, I know." She wiggles her wool-clad toes in his lap, and he covers them with one hand, which is still warm from the cocoa. The temperature difference between them doesn't feel so stark this way.

"You'll want thicker socks soon," he says, absentmindedly squeezing the arch of her foot. He can feel the muscles melt, instinctive and immediate. "But yes, that's the long and short of it."

"So, now we're snowed in."

"It's really more that an ice-sheet formed from the condensation on the outside of the TARDIS," he corrects. The dent in her brow deepens as she takes another pensive sip of cocoa, and he finds himself wanting to reassure her. "Though 'snowed in' does _sound_ nicer."

"If we're… trapped in ice," she starts, voice halting, "does that mean we'll… I dunno, run out of air?"

"Oh _, no_ , not for quite a long time. The basic life support systems are in good working order. Just… might get a bit nippy." He digs his thumb into her arch again, pressing a line down the pliable flesh, slowly moving toward her heel. Her shoulders sag, and he watches her eyelids give a tiny, rewarding flutter. "And anyway, you've got me—air from my lungs, remember?"

"Right," she snorts, though it turns into a sigh at the end as his thumb presses again. "Say that to all the girls, do you?" Watching her reactions is oddly gratifying, and they're all he can think of as he sets aside his cocoa and puts his other hand to work, spiraling his fingers over the arch of her neglected foot.

"Only the ones with respiratory systems."

She huffs another laugh, weaker and fading more quickly into an easy exhalation. Contentment gathers around her like a warm blanket—one he can sink his fingers into. He does.

Suddenly, Rose's eyes pop open. "You don't have to—"

"It's for your circulation," he answers, far too readily—even if it's true. "To keep you from feeling the cold. You're a long way off from hypothermia, but the temperature is already dropping in here, and we can't be too careful." It appears his babbling has convinced her, because Rose doesn't protest—instead, her head falls to the side, resting on her arm propped against the jumpseat. Her half-finished mug of cocoa lolls in her lap precariously, and he gestures to it. "You should drink that before it gets cold."

"What about you?"

He twists his thumbs in sync, privately grinning at the way her mouth falls slack. "Later."

"Right. Later," Rose breathes, dazed. But she does sip her drink, lips smacking pleasantly. He can't tell if her muffled moan is from the cocoa or his hands, and he decides to up his efforts—make sure that next time, it's the latter. "Doctor?"

"Hm?" he answers absently. All his concentration is on the memory of a chart he'd once seen and making his fingers follow the same soothing path—a moment of steady pressure at the curve of the heel, the insomnia point; skating up the middle to press the point corresponding with her solar plexus, to ease and slow her breathing; and then trailing up between her first two toes, pressing deeply despite the sock, on his way to the point that controls her pituitary gland.

There's a rhythm to it all, but it takes a bit for him to remember the flow.

Her voice pulls his focus. "Thank you," she sighs, dreamy and sated. She's already well on her way to sleep and he's only made the circuit once.

"You're quite welcome." He can't help the cheer that infuses his voice, even as he calls forth another excuse. "Gotta keep these feet in tip-top shape for running."

He doesn't say that it's because he wants her to run with him a long, long time.

He doesn't say that he owes her his life several times over, so a foot rub is the least he can offer.

And he most certainly doesn't say that he's enamoured with the vulnerability she displays, being so at ease under his hands. That he's ruined worlds and she trusts him to touch her, and it's such an indescribable gift that sometimes he can hardly speak for gratitude.

He just repeats the circuit, easing her closer to sleep with his thumbs and the oldest sort of earthly knowledge.

"Mm," she mumbles, lashes fluttering against her cheeks as her breathing evens out. "Love you, too."

For a moment, his fingers freeze—but her eyes remain shut. There is no spike in her heart rate, no tension sneaking back into the soles of her feet. She is completely at ease.

She is asleep.

She is asleep, and she'd still heard his unspoken confession. And she'd returned the sentiment with such a natural exhalation—barely more than a breath, but containing so much.

The Doctor holds her like that for a long time: soft pressure in sensitive places, staying with her even in sleep. He's almost afraid to move, even just to pull the mug from between her slackened fingers. But eventually he does. And he takes a sip—from the same side of the mug she'd been drinking from. Under the chocolate, he can taste the faint earthy-salt-sweet flavor from her skin.

And the cocoa is cold.

But the Time Lord drinking it feels warm, a dazed grin splitting his lips and a pair of pink-striped socks in his lap. It is with a triumphant glow that he sits and drinks his tepid beverage, looking alternately at the domed ceiling overhead and the sleeping blonde. She has become as much his home as the TARDIS.

He is still full of that feeling— _love,_ some part of him says, putting name to what he fears to express—when he shifts out from underneath her legs, only to stand and draw her into his arms, to cradle her soft pink cheek against his suit jacket and carry her to her bedroom.

It is love— _love, love, love_ —that moves him to settle the coverlet over her warm body, and to lay beside her, and to sleep.


	2. Gingerbread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: gingerbread  
> pairing: twelve x rose  
> rating: general
> 
> _in which a pregnant rose makes gingerbread, having forgotten something very important._

She had been working on something all evening. That much was clear.

Not just from the look of the kitchen—which was, it had to be said, in such a spectacular state of disarray that it resembled a work of interpretive art all on its own. Bags of unidentifiable baking substances, most of which were some variation on white or brown powder, torn asunder. The spice rack, all but upended. And scattered across every inch of countertop, following some sort of organizational structure he simply could not comprehend after twelve hours in surgery, loose candies piled high, as variable as pebbles on the shore. And as multitudinous.

But that wasn't actually the giveaway one might've thought.

No, it was mostly that Rose had a look about her. A very _specific_ look. Her body language landed somewhere quite mystifying on the scale between "manic pride" and "pure, childlike joy." It told him all he needed to know about what had driven this particular baking craze, and that he ought to approach carefully.

The intended results, however—those weren't quite as obvious. Sniffing the air, he detected familiar festive scents: cloves, cinnamon, and something else he couldn’t place.

He found himself scanning the area, in search of something to show for all the mess. But there was just Rose at the counter whipping something with a whisk, humming and bobbing along to the Christmas music that poured from the speaker system. The pale pink bow of her favourite apron was tied at the small of her back. And her hair was up, but escaped locks poured lopsidedly down her neck, falling like liquid gold. Even looking at her bright, soft beauty indirectly made something in his chest stutter and ache.

He moved across the kitchen in barely a moment, sliding his arms around her from behind, breathing in the smell of her skin and all that sugar. Though she gave a little jump, a laugh swiftly followed. “Hello there, Doctor,” she greeted, leaning back into his arms. “You’re home late. Or is it early?”

“I don’t know anymore,” he rasped. He was surprised at the weary sound of his own voice—withered from too many hours without water—but Rose wasn’t. She simply unfolded herself from the circle of his arms and got the tea going, dancing through the familiar motions—filling the kettle, retrieving their mugs, pilfering from their special stash of holiday teas that she had to stretch to reach. His eyes followed her path through the chaos with well-honed interest. “You’ve been busy.”

She turned on him, eyes sparkling. “What gave me away?”

“Nothing. I’m just terribly clever," he answered, leaning in close as she brushed by, kettle in hand. When her eyes rolled, her sooty lashes fluttered and a smile plucked at the corner of her lips.

His hand lifted instinctively to smooth over the swell of her stomach as she passed. At four months along, her bump was unmistakable, but still a sweet reminder to them both—not yet burden enough to hinder her movements or her sleep—and the need to touch her felt similar to his drive for food, and water, and rest. Constant, renewing itself each day. “How’s my peanut?”

Rose paused to let his hand rest, and to press a kiss to his cheek.

They were still waiting for the first kick like eager children, evenings often passing when they would do nothing more than sit together and talk, his palm spread over her belly and her fingers laced with his. It was early yet, but neither of them could wait—the first kick would be a gift, more perfect and wanted than anything they could wrap and place under the tree.

“She’s perfectly fine,” she spoke against his cheek, voice eager and buzzing. “Nothing new to report. Don’t you want to see your surprise?”

“I get a surprise?” he asked, once again looking incredulously around the kitchen. “What’s the occasion?”

Shrugging, Rose once again extracted herself from his arms, which had started to creep around her waist, with the intention of holding her close. The pull she'd always exerted only became more magnetic as their marriage wore on, and he often opened his eyes to find himself tucked around her like wrapping paper, unable to get enough contact. And she never seemed to mind, though at this particular moment, she clearly had other priorities.

“The occasion is that I love you and I wanted us to do something fun together!” She stopped to clear a space on the countertop, excavating the base of the kettle from the mountain of sweets. Only then did he notice the light emitting from the oven beside her, and the glint of a cookie sheet.

“What a coincidence—I also love _you,_ ” he teased, smirking at the blush that bloomed over her cheeks. It was unbelievable, really, that those simple words still had such a strong effect. How she warmed under praise, thrived on the love she’d been so often deprived of growing up. “So, what fun thing are we doing tonight? I assume it involves cookies."

Kettle on, Rose spun back around, the frilly hem of her apron flaring out around her. "Got it in one. And not just any cookies—gingerbread cookies! _And,_ " she added, with all the enthusiasm of a holiday advert, "not just gingerbread _cookies_ , but a gingerbread _house!_ " She rolled up onto the balls of her feet, bouncing eagerly. "I've never done one before, so I looked up a recipe—gingerbread isn't _that_ hard, you know—and I made a double batch. In… seven minutes and thirty seconds, we'll be able to start construction!"

He wasn't quite sure what his face was doing, but it must not have been an appropriate response, because first Rose's lips dipped, and then they curved entirely down into a frown.

"What?"

"Rose," he began, though he wasn't sure where to start. Hesitation kept him still where he stood, mouth working.

And all the time, her enthusiasm was fading like melted snow, the effect of her hormones strong and immediate. Rose sank back onto her heels, suddenly still. "I… I thought you'd like to—to make it—like our new house?" She spoke it like a question, and it wrenched his heart. "I did the measurements."

Her bottom lip trembled.

"Rose," he repeated, oh-so-gently. "I would love, more than anything, to make a gingerbread house with you..."

To reassure her that he meant it, he stepped closer and pulled one hand into both of his; he chafed at her fingers, which were never warm enough, no matter how sweltering he kept the house. He kissed her fingertips and exhaled warm air.

"But I'm allergic to ginger."

For a moment, he thought she wasn't going to say anything at all. Her lip wobbled again, just once before she pulled it firmly between her teeth. And then she nodded.

"Right," she croaked.

"Darling," he tried.

But she shook her head, cutting him off with a swish of her hair. "I forgot. How could I forget? You—when we were sampling wedding cakes, we tried that sp-spice cake," she hiccoughed, struggling to speak through the tears that were beginning to bloom. "And your face… your face got all p-puffy… and—Iain, I completely forgot—oh, I'm s-sorry!"

And with a heartbreaking wail, she fell forward into his arms—weeping her heart out, as if she had poisoned him and was now simply awaiting his inevitable demise. A torrent of tears soaked his button-down, turning it translucent, while he simply held her and made a gentle shushing sound. The absurdity of her despair only made her storm of sobs more painful to hear.

"It's all right," he soothed. "You didn't do anything wrong, you just forgot. Everyone forgets things sometimes, darling."

But she shook her head forcefully, not lifting her face from where it pressed into his chest. " _You_ don't."

"Oh, _yes,_ I most certainly do. I forget things all the time." He chuckled and wrapped his arms even more firmly around her. "It's a wonder Clara and the other nurses put up with me."

"You never forget things about… about _me,_ " she whispered. "You remember everything." And even though he hated her tears, hated the watery sound of her voice, he loved the faith in her words. The way she saw good in him was constantly, magnificently humbling.

"Well," he spoke into her hair, "for all the years I've known you, so have you—you've remembered all the important things. And that's only changed because _you're_ the one walking around with a growing baby and a whole wash of new hormones inside her."

He drew her head back, just far enough to see her red-rimmed, glistening eyes and clumped lashes. After pressing a kiss to her flushed forehead, he cradled her face in his hands—marveled at the privilege of holding his entire world in his hands.

"Rose, I'm more than happy to be the one who remembers everything for a little while, yeah? I don't mind doing that."

"I know," she said shakily, but she huffed out a breath. She seemed to be calming as quickly as she'd started crying. It would’ve been funny, if he hadn’t known how deeply she’d felt the emotions of only a moment ago. Absolutely _everything_ hit her hard these days. "I just hate it—feeling all-over-the-place, y'know?"

"I do. You like to be strong, and you like to be in control, and you can't be that all the time right now." His thumbs stroked the overheated apples of her cheeks. "But that's okay. I promise. It'll pass."

With one final gulping breath, Rose managed to speak. "I love you."

The words drew a smile from him that no one else ever saw—one that was unquestionably sappy, giving his lips a crooked, heartfelt tilt. "I love you, too," he replied, and he meant it. With every fiber of his being, he meant it. Still smiling like a fool, he leaned in to drop a gentle kiss on her swollen lips; he could taste the faint salt traces of tears, and there was an indescribable sweetness to it that rooted him to the spot.

Rose sighed, warm breath fanning over his face. "How do you always know what to say?"

"Told you—I'm clever."

Her breath turned into a snort of laughter. "Humble, too."

"Very," he nodded. "Now, is _all_ of this candy contaminated, or do you think there are a few pieces that escaped unscathed?" He kept his tone light and teasing, and he was relieved when Rose giggled again, surveying the kitchen with a critical eye.

"I think it's probably fine," she replied—but she still swatted away his hand when he reached for a gumdrop at the top of a small, multi-colored mountain. Questioningly, he tilted his head.

With very intentional slowness, Rose took the soft candy between her thumb and forefinger and looked up at him with a wicked, sly smile. Her eyes were dark and dragging like pools of spilled caramel and he leaned toward her without conscious thought—lips aiming for the pink tips of her fingers.

But before he could capture the sweet, she popped it into her mouth. It bobbed against her cheek, stretching the skin for a moment before it disappeared fully into the cavern of her mouth. Her smirk only stretched at his pouting stare.

There was a greedy light in her eyes as she said, "The candies are _probably_ fine, but… I should be the one to eat them all, just to be on the safe side—don't you think?"

He shook his head, feeling his shoulders twitch with repressed laughter. "Not a chance, darling."

And then he kissed her—a messy, sugary mouthful of tongue, seeking out the holiday treat which had been stolen from him. He extracted only a happy, Rose-flavored sound.

Which he believed to be infinitely sweeter.


	3. Shopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: shopping  
> pairing: kid!ten & kid!rose  
> rating: general
> 
> _in which rose needs her mum's help to buy a christmas gift for her favorite classmate._

"Mum, I wanna buy something."

She makes her announcement one December evening in 1999, raising her voice over the sound of EastEnders. It is something she's given a lot of thought to, and so she treats it as such: a conversation to be embarked on seriously, and articulately.

Jackie Tyler, however, barks a laugh and barely spares her daughter a glance, eyes shining blue in the light of the telly. "Don't we all, sweetheart." It isn't framed as a question, and yet, Rose feels compelled to answer.

"Yeah, I do. I wanna buy—I wanna buy someone a Christmas present." Her hesitation over the name of this "someone" isn't from fear of her mum's disapproval—in fact, she believes her mother might be all too happy to hear her daughter fancies someone. It would certainly make her seem a sight more normal than the odd, grave little creature Rose knows herself to be. But she finds herself wanting to withhold the name anyway, because she doesn't often have secrets—especially not from her mum—and this one seems like a sort of innocent, nice one to have. It makes her feel this warm, gooey sensation in her belly when she thinks about it too long.

"That's sweet of you," her mother replies, and she finally turns her attention from the television set. "What sort of a present?"

At this, Rose perks up, answer at the ready. Because, yes, she most decidedly has given this _a lot_ of thought.

By the time the half-hour episode comes to an end, she has explained her idea in full—and, perhaps more excitingly, she has got her mum to agree to it. Rose goes to bed that night brimming with joy, so excited that she can hardly fall asleep.

Tomorrow, she is going _shopping._

-

Their first and only stop is an art supply store—one that she's never visited before, but that her mum had seen an ad for in the papers. It's a little out of the way, and Rose isn't sure she's ever been to this part of London before—the Christmas displays are so much _nicer_ here _—_ but her fears become immediately and blissfully unimportant when she steps through the doorway.

Everywhere, there's something to look at. A floor-to-ceiling display of pens, spread out in a rainbow of colors. Stacks and stacks of paper, tubes of glitter, cartons of brushes in a whole range of sizes, scissors and glue, wooden boards, thick-tipped and narrow-tipped and double-tipped markers, and finally—the stuff she's looking for.

She stretches onto her toes and points up at the large canvas hanging on the wall: it's wider than she is, and about half as tall. When Jackie sees the price tag, she balks. But Rose, usually so observant and keen, barely notices; she is too busy wandering dreamily down the next aisle, in search of the right paint colors.

She has to be very careful how she chooses. After all, he'd described it all so _wonderfully._

The nice sales lady who came to get the canvas down for her smiles underneath her faux fur-trimmed Santa hat and points out some acrylic kits. "They come all together in a box," she explains kindly. "Perfect for beginners. And then you'll have a whole rainbow to choose from!"

She means well, but Rose is undeterred. She doesn't need a whole rainbow: just the right colors.

Carefully, she selects her paints. As exciting as it would be for her to get the fancy brand—the paints that come in matte black tubes with thin, precise white text on them—she knows they can't afford them. And anyway, it's not practical.

She's going to need a lot of paint if she wants to cover that giant canvas.

Jackie watches her daughter as she stands in the middle of the aisle, surrounded by rows and rows of paint that, to her untrained eyes, look completely interchangeable. Rose isn't exactly still—she's only a child, after all—but she's more pensive than is usual for someone her age. When she speaks to the sales lady, she does so with genuine, emphatic politeness—before correcting the woman in her brash accent: "Thanks, but 'm not a beginner."

Jackie hides a smile behind her hand.

They leave the store with only a few paint colors and a canvas that can hardly fit into even the largest shopping bag, but Rose seems chuffed with her purchases. The small girl smiles brightly, chin upturned, and when the wind kicks up to turn her nose pink and whip her hair all around her face, she doesn't complain. She grins all the tube ride home.

-

After the shopping trip, Rose’s real work begins.

She's done little sketches before—quick doodles, more like—in an effort to capture his words as he spoke them. Some of them even have little annotations in his scrawled, indecipherable handwriting. _Like this,_ one says, _but the roof is taller._

She tacks the drawings up to her wall as a reference. Squinting, stepping backward and then forward again, she does her best to get the broad strokes. The colours and shapes. The features he'd described so precisely, so lovingly.

She doesn't want to mess this up. After all, she only has one shot—one canvas and a limited amount of paint. It is with great care that she pours small amounts of acrylic onto a paper plate, readying her frayed old brush.

She has a Christmas gift to make.

-

For days, she works. School isn't out yet, and while she's grateful—it means she still has time to perfect it before giving it to him—it is _agony_ to leave home during the day. To leave her painting behind. And for what? School? She could almost scoff.

The only parts that make it worth it are the times she spends with him, sitting at desks pushed close, heads bent together as he tells stories—other stories, of different places—and she tries to draw them.

He's lived all over. Different countries, different continents. Sometimes, it feels as if he's exploring an entirely different planet than the one she's living on. The edges of London make up the boundaries of her world, and she finds herself hungry for everything he tells her. Each little detail, she tucks away. _Red grass._ She can hardly imagine it. _Silver-leafed trees._ She closes her eyes and all but sees how they shine.

Rose knows that the life behind the stories is not all bright and colorful and wonderful—things can't always be as fun and exciting as he makes them sound. And so many of his stories are tinged with sadness; she can recognize the signs in others that she often shows herself.

Lost boxes during a move, containing unrecoverable toys and photos and memories.

Holidays in hotels, sat beneath artificial Christmas trees, wishing he was home with his cousin Donna.

Forest fires. Dead fish washing up from the ocean. Being alone when it's plain he doesn't want to be.

Heat and dust, sunburn and sadness, and always a wistfulness when he talks about going home again.

With every passing day, she becomes more determined to make it perfect—to paint it just how he remembers.

It is an impossible task. But she's Rose Tyler; she eats impossible for breakfast.

-

On the day the painting is finished, it occurs to her that she has no plan to get it to him. She doesn't know his address or even what general part of London he lives in. And she's not sure if it would be rude to ask—they're friends, but are they _that_ close?

She doesn't know. And for a moment, she worries that this is all a big mistake. That he'll think she's weird and obsessed with him.

But it's too late now.

She decides that, when she’s ready, she’ll take it with her on the school bus.

-

Her mum helps her wrap the canvas, because for all her artistic skill, Rose lacks the ability to cut in a straight line with scissors. And though her mother nosily asks who this beautiful painting is for, she waits until she's alone to print his name in neat block letters on a folded piece of paper.

 _FOR JAMES NOBLE,_ it says. _HAPPY CHRISTMAS._

-

And then she does, in fact, take it with her on the bus. She puts it off until the last possible day, right before the hols start. It's her last chance.

The driver arches his brows, but doesn't comment on her oversized parcel in bright red-and-white striped paper. All the other kids give her funny looks, so she sets it on the window-side seat, keeping her body protectively between the canvas and curious eyes.

She's red-cheeked and anxious all the way to school, wondering if she should've just gotten him a gift card.

-

But she knows she's done the right thing when he sees her enter with the package and his face lights up.

" _Rose_ ," Jamie says in a tone of awe, brown eyes wide and glassy behind his spectacles. He hasn't even opened the gift yet, and the teacher is already looking at them—not in disapproval, exactly. More of a benevolent impatience. The rest of the class looks on eagerly, in direct contrast to Jamie's shell-shocked stillness.

And Rose is still blushing up to her ears, her heart racing like a rabbit in her chest.

"Really, 's not a big deal," she hurries to say, the words tripping over one another. "Just something I did." _Obviously._ She winces. "I mean, I—painted it."

Jamie looks suitably impressed, slowly shaking his head. "But I didn't get you anything."

"Doesn't matter. I didn't—" She stops to shake her head. "Gifts shouldn't work like that. Otherwise they're not gifts."

He nods knowingly. He understands; she knows he does. Jamie always understands her, no matter how odd she sounds. But she can't wait anymore, and gestures again at the package.

"Open it."

For another long moment, he stares at it—as if the parcel is gift enough and he's trying to commit every inch of it to memory. The tension in the class is thick all around. Students crane out of their chairs, trying to see as the sound of ripping paper rends the classroom. And, peering through the gap, a house emerges. Strip by strip, the paper falls away and leaves behind a picture of a place.

Just like he'd described it a dozen times: a tall, narrow house, with faded blue wood paneling.

It rests in a field of high grass at the edge of a cliff near the sea, but she couldn't paint that part—only the field, stretching wide under the infinite, pale, blue-grey sky. The grass isn't red all through, but tufts of it pop up like bursts of flame, catching the eye. In the yard stands a twisted old tree with leaves that start green and go pale at the edges, close to silver in the sunlight.

Everything he'd said he missed most—it's all here. Not perfect by any means, but she feels— _hopes—_ she has captured the heart of the home he loves so much.

She's holding her breath, perfectly silent. Around the classroom, a hum of voices is building. Eager, interested. But Rose doesn't notice. Doesn't care.

She is only interested in the drop of Jamie's jaw, and the way his hands suddenly rake through his floppy, messy hair. He is clearly speechless, and she _thinks_ it's the good kind of speechlessness, but it's hard to say. She's never seen him _not talking_ before.

"Rose," he says finally, his eyes meeting hers. And then—to her eternal mortification, to her _eternal joy_ —Jamie launches forward and hugs her close. His wiry arms form steel bands around her own, locking them down tight, squeezing until her bones creak and her eyes start to fill with tears. But it's over in a blink, and then he's staggering back, color high on his cheekbones. He can't seem to look at her _or_ the painting directly, instead blinking rapidly at the floor.

It is only Mr. Smith's gentle, amused interruption that reminds them that their entire saga is being watched. And Rose, just as red-faced, cheeks split by a beatific smile, sits down in her seat. Right next to Jamie, as usual.

She spends the rest of the day trying not to float out of it.

-

Two days after Christmas, an unexpected package arrives at the flat.

It's haphazardly taped, and the ink on the label is uniquely smudgy, as if it had passed through multiple hands before arriving in hers. But Rose recognises the handwriting at once, and she steals into her room without so much as a word to her mum, clutching it to her chest.

She doesn't notice Jackie's knowing smile, but it's there, hidden behind a mug of tea.

Inside the box, she finds a mess of tissue paper and—nestled down deep, a note.

_Dear Rose,_

_I asked about your address so I could send you this. Hope that’s okay and you don’t think I’m a weird stalker or obsessed with you or anything. And I hope you like the gift, even though I didn’t make it._

_Happy Christmas._

_Love, Jamie_

_P.S. (I hung your painting in my bedroom. Thank you again.)_

Rose feels as if her heart might burst out of her chest.

Tucked securely beneath the note is a thin black velvet box. It looks like one of those posh jewelry boxes she's seen in department store windows, and she runs her fingers over it reverently. The texture is like peach fuzz and just as sweet to her.

She pulls the box open and it makes a small creaking noise, which is immediately followed by her own loud gasp.

Inside, there is a necklace.

A delicate silver chain. And on it hangs a charm—shaped just like a real key, with tiny teeth and a brushed metal finish. The top of the key has a little bit punched out in the middle. In the shape of a heart.

Rose slides the chain over her head and smiles wide when the cool key comes to rest against her chest.

And she never, never takes it off.


	4. Holiday Movies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: holiday movies  
> pairing: nine x rose  
> rating: mature (language)
> 
> _in which Rose struggles to understand her grumpy co-star._

"Probably the best part of working with him is the eye candy. I mean, have you _seen_ him?"

_A titter of laughter. Bright and endearing._

"The leather jacket, the brooding stare, the rugged looks, those piercing blue eyes—the man is dreamy!"

_A sound like a sigh. Performatively wistful, but like everyone's in on the joke._

"No, but really, he's a complete professional. I mean, he's got years in the business, worked with people I can only dream of meeting someday. Every scene with him is electric, polished, and _fun._ I've loved every moment on set with him."

_A wide, genuine smile, which softens into something sweeter._

"I'm only sad it'll be over soon."

_And… scene._

Her smile droops off her face like an old, stretched out bra strap, and all the tension and vibrancy of her performance goes with it. In the smudgy mirror, her red-lipped reflection watches her every move through a curtain of black lashes. The face before her is a critic, and it is unimpressed.

Rose sighs. " _Fuck_."

And then she leaves her trailer, because at this point, it won’t get any better.

-

It's not that she doesn't love her job—she does. She _absolutely_ does.

Sometimes, it still feels like a dream, showing up on set and having them know her, _expect_ her. For craft services to know she's vegetarian and always set aside a cheese sandwich, just for her. For her name to be on the trailer, even just printed on a piece of paper and taped to a door. It all feels so… so _special,_ somehow.

And then there’s the bit where she disappears. Becomes someone else.

She loves her job.

It's just—him.

-

John McCrimmon got his start in the eighties, doing adverts for a retail chain in the north of England. Rose knows this because she gets asked about it—about their shared history of commercial work, albeit ten years apart, before eventually finding their place in the film industry.

_What a coincidence!_ The askers marvel. _I bet you two have loads to talk about._

When people bring it up, she says, "Isn't that how we all start?" with a fondness she doesn't feel for that cold, starving, _empty_ portion of her life.

And because she is a professional, she amends. "Yes, we do have a lot in common, John and me." And they are satisfied with that answer.

In the technical sense, it's the truth.

Mostly what they have in common is how much they loathe one another, though.

-

They're filming behind-the-scenes stuff today. Touchy-feely interviews where she's supposed to rhapsodise about what a wonderful experience this film has been. And, by and large, it _has_ been lovely.

Particularly the scenes where she didn't have to work with John.

Of which there were precious few.

Still, she digs deep and finds her inner well of positivity: the kindly craft services lady, Astrid, and the cameraman who always wears t-shirts with feminist slogans, and the feeling of seeing her name—her own boring, common name—on a trailer.

The truth is, she wants to lie. She wants to _believe_ the lie. Because she's that humiliating sort of girl: the one who needs everyone to like her or else she can't be happy.

It's not so much that she wants to be the center of attention, but that she wants to be unassuming, able to fade into the background when she isn't fading into her character. Being universally liked is almost like being invisible, and she prefers to work that way. Invisibly. Inhabiting her role.

But the way John dislikes her—it is something that makes her feel _distinctly_ visible. Observed at every moment, and judged.

He brushes past her as she settles into a chair— _also_ with her name on it, because wonders never cease—offering barely a nod on his way to somewhere else. At least the interviews are one-on-one; she doesn't think she'd be able to lie to his face.

Which is funny, because it's all she's done, all day long, for months now. It's her _job._

-

A few days later, they are shooting The Climactic Moment. These holiday movies all have one. A reunion and a kiss under powdery snowfall—Rose can see it in her mind's eye, and they haven't even filmed it yet.

She's been preparing for it—that is, The Kiss—while they do a lighting test: mentally readying herself, so she can turn the veiled animosity between them into something that will read on camera as hunger. As a desperate desire to kiss his stupid frown right off.

It's not _totally_ implausible.

Just _slightly_ implausible.

She pops a mint onto her tongue and rolls it around while Lucie touches up her makeup. In the background, the director—this really lovely woman named Sarah Jane, who has been making rom-coms for as long as there have been rom-coms—seems to be discussing something with John. He nods agreeably, or as agreeably as one can look while almost-scowling. She has no idea how he does it.

Still, he's being _polite_. It seems like he’s capable of being so with everyone but her.

_There's nothing for it,_ she sighs. Her makeup done, she retakes her mark and waits for them to reset the scene.

-

She spots him out of the corner of her eye, just standing there under a street lamp in the snow that drifts lazily down from above. He’s got an uncharacteristically soft expression on his face as he looks toward the sky—inviting, almost, and it pulls her toward him, her plimsolls leaving indents in the soft powder that damps the sound of her steps. He doesn’t see her until she’s close. Too close. They share the light from the streetlamp like they would an umbrella to take shelter from rain.

“What are you doing here?”

His voice is flat, or—it is _trying_ to sound flat, but what it actually sounds like is pleading. And more than a little lonely.

“I live here,” she answers with a smile that’s too bright. He isn’t looking at her; it’s clear that he’s trying not to with every inch of his body. His eyes track the falling snow.

“No, you don’t,” he answers. “You own a house here. There’s a difference.”

“You’re right.” In a bid to make him look at her, she steps directly in front of him—close enough to touch her chest to his, if she took a particularly deep breath. And she reaches her hand out to tangle with his, to get his attention.

It works.

He is looking at her, eyes so painfully blue. In the dim light, they practically glow. When she exhales, it sounds shuddery and faint, and the cloud of white that curls from her lips makes the space between them feel even smaller.

“I don’t know what it’s like to live here," she admits. "Jack, I don’t know what it’s like to live _anywhere_. All I’ve ever done is run. But I want to try… to stay.” She stares into his eyes as if they’re the only two beings on earth and he is the only reason she is here—because it’s true, he _is,_ she would’ve left this little town in the dust if it hadn’t been for him—and she wills him to believe her. “This is your town, not mine. You can show me how.”

For a moment, silence falls with the snow. And then—

Slowly, almost skittish, he lifts his hand until it hovers barely a breath from her cheek. She can feel the heat radiate from his palm, even in all this cold, and she leans toward it, wanting to close the space. But he’s still hesitating, even if the light in his eyes has changed from bitter anger into something tender and fragile and sweet.

“You’re staying?” he rasps.

He sounds so hopeful that she can’t help but laugh—a watery sound. Tears well behind her eyes. “Yeah,” she says. “ _Yeah,_ I am.” And in the space of a breath, she is pushing onto her toes, using their clasped hands to ground herself as she connects their lips in a desperate kiss.

Rose notices a few things. She hadn’t expected his lips to be so soft. He always smells a bit like tea and leather, but he _tastes_ like it, too. Like tea. A little bitter, and a little sweet, and he cushions her cheek with his hand, and he kisses her, and he _kisses_ her, and he _kisses her_ —

“Cut!”

One moment, they are kissing, and the next moment, he is _reeling_ back. Like she’s struck him. Her grip on his hand disappears, and so does her sense of balance, so she tilts forward as he tilts back. And for a moment, she thinks she’s going to fall.

But she doesn’t.

His hand is on her arm. Steadying her. When she looks up, his jaw is locked, as sharp as granite, and he looks almost _feral._ As if what had once been mere distaste had, throughout the course of this one scene, transformed into a loathing so complete that it possesses him like a vengeful spirit. When he releases her again, his fingers flex and his mouth twists into a sneer.

Off camera, there is chatter. “Reset!”

“Sarah,” he says, his tone perfectly calm though he is looking right at Rose with the force of an imploding sun. “I’m taking ten.”

And then, he turns on his heel and stomps away.

He only pauses to snag his leather jacket from where it always, always hangs over the back of his chair.

For a moment, she’s not entirely sure what's happened or what she's supposed to do. It’s clear they’re taking a break—does she go back to her trailer? Loiter around set? Ask for another touch-up on her makeup?

_No,_ she decides.

She follows him.

-

“Hey!” Rose calls, her voice getting lost in the sounds of the lot until she has to practically shout. “ _Hey!_ ” But he doesn’t turn around, even though she’s _sure_ that he can hear her. He just keeps stomping in the direction of the trailers, his broad back hunched beneath his jacket.

She puts on a burst of speed, jogging ahead of him and blocking the door to his trailer before he can disappear for good. She expects his face to be angry, but when he stops short, one brow merely twitches and then he says, "Yes, Rose?"

Questions race through her mind, leaping over one another to get to her tongue. But what she settles on is this:

"What the _fuck_ is your problem?"

Not the most eloquent, though it certainly gets her feelings across.

But he almost looks bored at her outburst, shifting back and forth on his feet. She'd believe the performance if not for the panicked glint in his eyes.

"I don't have a problem."

"Really? Tell that to your face," she snaps. "I mean, no wonder you're always typecast as the miserable, _arsehole_ villain! Do you seriously loathe me enough to ruin this film?"

She can't decide if he looks more shocked or angry, then. It's apparent that she's hit a nerve, though whether it's because she'd called him a one-dimensional actor or because he does actually just loathe her isn't clear.

His arms cross over his chest, and she has to forcefully ignore the way the scent of leather curls around her. "That's a bit presumptuous of you. But then, I'm not surprised—it's just your true colors, finally showing themselves." He seethes, all but spitting the words.

" _Excuse_ me?" Poking her finger into his chest, she defends herself. "I have been _nothing_ but nice to you for _months_ , but sure, _I'm_ the bad guy."

"You've been nothing but _fake,_ " he corrects, and when he snatches her hand in his palm to stop her touching him, he stops her breath, too. "It's all politeness and perkiness, all the bloody time. Do you ever just… stop the act for a second and think about trying to be a normal human being? Christ, it's like working with a fucking—a fucking _labradoodle_."

_Labradoodle?!_

"Oh, yes, I suppose I should be more like you, then," Rose tosses out. She no longer cares about salvaging this conversation, or this working relationship. No, _this_ is about catharsis—about weeks, _months_ spent trying to work alongside someone who clearly thought she was an irritant and nothing more. "I should spend more time _stomping_ around, glaring at anyone who looks at me twice—which, mind you, is _everyone_ because we're on a fucking _film set_ —and not caring one bit about the comfort of my co-workers. Yes, I should absolutely take notes from you, you bad-tempered, self-important _git._ "

"It's called being a _professional,_ Rose," he says, looming over her like an oncoming stormcloud. "You might like to try it sometime!"

"Yeah, sorry, _no._ Newsflash, John—I'm not interested in your sort of 'professionalism,' because I'm a nice, normal person who just wants the people around me to have a _nice—_ " and she realizes that she's too close, " _—fucking—_ " like, _far_ too close to him, " _time!_ " And she is so close to his face that she can smell his aftershave and that bitter tea again. His hand is hot around hers, and—

_Huh._

It occurs to her that she is really just a walking cliché.

This isn't—

None of this is what she thought it was.

"You're a miserable prick," she says, by way of closing comments. There is no fire in it—or, at least, not like before.

He shoots back a reply that fans out over her lips like a spectral kiss. "And you smile too much."

"Not around you, I don't," she snorts. But, to her horror, she is smiling. Her mouth seems all too eager to twitch up at the corners, and somewhere in the back of her frantic, scrambling mind, she notices that there is a faint curve to his own lips.

His lips—

"Are you going to do it, or shall I?" she asks, swallowing thickly.

"God, stop _smiling,_ " he says—a non-answer, of course it is—and then she isn't smiling, because it is very difficult to smile when one is being kissed with such unbearable, toe-curling thoroughness.

He kisses her so hard that her back hits the trailer door, and it shoves the air straight from her lungs, and she doesn't _care._ It feels like a scene playing out, fluid and perfect, and she doesn't want it to ever, ever end.

"For months," he's mumbling. "Every day. All day. Smiling. It's like—"

It's _surreal._

"Like a labradoodle?" She laughs, her bottom lip sticking to his like their skin can't bear to separate. His hand is in her hair—she's fucked, she's going to have to go _straight_ back into makeup after this. And she can't quite bring herself to care.

"Like standing next to the sun all the time. Hurts the eyes." He kisses her again, long and slow, and when he stops, she wonders why they hadn't started ages ago.

"That's—is that a compliment?"

"Do you want to go to dinner with me?"

"Answer my question," she says. And she's smiling. She knows she is.

"It's a compliment, yes. Dinner. With me. Please." He says "please" with a humility that shouldn't be possible from someone who acts like he does—superior, professional—all the time, but it _is_ earnest, and humble, and she finds herself kissing him instead of answering for a perfect, stomach-swooping moment.

"Yeah," she finally agrees, as their panting breath fogs the cold air. "I'd love that."

-

Production is delayed by four entire hours.

Of course, Sarah Jane is about as irritated as she can be, when they do eventually get back. But in the end, that scene in the snow—where a hard road culminates with a kiss on Christmas Day—it _sparkles_.


	5. Ornament

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: ornament  
> pairing: nine x rose  
> rating: general
> 
> _in which jack, rose, and the doctor decorate the tardis christmas tree._

If he'd explained it once, he'd explained it a hundred times: there was no night, no morning, no afternoon, no teatime on the TARDIS. Which meant that, fundamentally, there was no Christmas on the TARDIS either. 

No winter, no holiday season, no Yule.

But that meant precisely nothing at all to the humans on board.

"What's this one?" she asked, dangling an ornament like cut-glass that hung from an elegant silver hook. The light from the time rotor sparkled through it like a prism, painting Rose's face in shades of light.

"It was a gift from an Ice Queen. Long extinct, but they made the most fantastic ice sculptures." He would've stopped there, only Rose was looking up at him with a rapt expression. "It looks like glass, right? But it isn't. It's ice, held in stasis."

With a happy sigh, her wide eyes returned to the ornament dangling from the tip of her finger. "That's amazing," she breathed. "So, will it break—if we hang it up? Or… melt?"

Behind her, Jack's voice came down the ladder. " _Nope,_ " he declared, thoroughly stealing the Doctor's thunder. "Ice Queens were very careful with their work. In fact, their sculptures were designed to last millennia—to be gifted one was a sign of permanent respect. Or," he added, eyes sparkling, "as a token of undying love."

He almost groaned. Trust Jack to turn it into something completely other than what it was.

But Rose looked enthralled, and she gaped up at first Jack and then himself with what looked like an extremely conflicting mix of envy and awe. "That's so romantic! Was she in love with you?"

"How should I know?" he snapped, though _she_ wasn't the source of his irritation. No, _that_ honor belonged to the smirking Captain looking decidedly innocent next to the Christmas tree. While _he_ fussed with the tinsel draped over the sweetly scented boughs, the Doctor was left awkwardly trying to explain his prior relationship to an eight-foot-tall, flying offshoot-organism of a pan-dimensional hive mind who had been dead for billions of years. "We didn't have much time for conversation, as I was a bit busy trying to keep her ice hives from melting." Sulkily, he added, "She could've just been grateful for my help." 

"Oh my _god,_ " Rose cried. "She did, she _fancied_ you!"

"She totally did," Jack unhelpfully supplied.

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "If she did, it wasn't exactly undying—she's gone now."

There was no good way to say something like that, but he made an effort to sound untouched by it—unbothered in the knowledge that, for all his saving, the Ice Queens went extinct anyway. It wasn't a unique case; it was an inevitability for most species he encountered in the universe. Completely normal. Even humans, in the end, would be gone. And—if his bad luck held—he'd outlast them all.

Rose, sweet and sensitive Rose, pulled herself up off the floor, choosing to abandon the box of bright bits and bobs in favor of sitting beside him on the jump seat. "I know you don't want to talk about it," she assured him. "I just—"

Her arms slid around him, squeezing tight. With Rose's warm head against his shoulder, he could nearly forget about the end of the universe. It was a long way off, and she was here and warm and present and alive.

Across the room, Jack looked on smugly. When the Doctor caught his gloating, he rolled his eyes and then narrowed them in a glare. Jack, being Jack, only blew him a kiss.

The long and lingering hug eventually had to end, if only because Rose was determined to get the tree finished by bedtime. With a final squeeze, she released him and returned to her spot on the floor, where she set about carefully unpacking more ornaments. They were many, and varied. Preserved popcorn balls from Earth, dried jungle flowers in resin from Deva Loka, a dancing figure made of nuts and bolts that Ace had constructed and he had sentimentally wired. So many memories were contained in Rose's small, gentle hands.

And eventually, she pulled one of _theirs_ out.

A pink, sparkling ball—perfectly ordinary-looking, except it was lit from within and would glow like a jar full of fireflies. She'd seen it at a night market on Harlequin Three and had been spellbound, standing at the stall for nearly ten minutes while the air glittered and glimmered around her.

Rose glanced up. "Is this…?"

"You wanted one," he answered, struggling to look nonchalant in the face of her beaming, brilliant smile. Eagerly, she shook the ornament and waited for the light to kick up and flicker inside—and when it did, she wore that same expression of joy he'd seen her wearing that night, in the middle of the street, surrounded by fairy lights.

It wasn't like the ice sculpture—it didn't scatter rainbows over her face—but the humble pink ornament did shower her with warm light, making her skin glow peachy gold. When she held it near to her face, _she_ appeared to be the one lit from inside.

But her silent appreciation only lasted a moment before she scrambled back to her feet, handed the ornament over to Jack, and launched herself at the jump seat again, with all the force of an effusive human girl. 

As her hands scrabbled under his coat to hug his ribs, the Doctor shook his head in gentle amusement. He'd always known she was an amazing creature—her enthusiasm for things never flagged or failed—but _this_ was the response he lived for. Simple, uncomplicated joy. It was why he took her to see the wonders of the universe, and then to ice cream shops in Soho, and then to the media room for rotten television. Everything was wonderful to her; everything was a joy to behold.

He settled his cheek against the top of her head. "Like it?"

"Love it," Rose nodded, burrowing further into his chest. "You really are a soft old alien, aren't you?"

For a moment, he thought about denying it. But it was—or wasn't—Christmas, and he thought he could let himself have a moment of indulgence. Lowering his voice, he whispered, "Yes, but don't tell anyone." 

Despite himself, he found his eyes flicking up to Jack, who had stayed mercifully silent during the exchange.

Jack, who was smiling fondly at them both as Rose giggled, her nose pressing into the wool of his jumper.

"Secret's safe with us," she whispered back, before taking a long breath, then breathing the warm air back into his chest. His hearts picked up tempo in response, as if seeking out her warmth. Despite himself, his arms shifted to tighten around her, unwilling to relinquish her human warmth and the glow of her beautiful heart near his.

Everything had to end, but—as he sat in the light of a tree celebrating a holiday he didn't put much stock in—he felt safe in that knowledge that everything had its time, too. And his time could not possibly be better spent than it was, here. Now. Together.


	6. Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: hope  
> pairing: eight x rose  
> rating: general
> 
> _in which barista john moons over rose, who comes in every day and orders the same thing._

_God, she's so pretty._

For the millionth time, the thought crops up at the very front of his brain, preventing him from executing even basic functions—like counting her change. The coins in his hand have become a blurred, indistinguishable mass behind the recurring phrase: _She's just so pretty. How is she so_ pretty _and still… well, a human being?_

Naturally, it takes him twice as long as it should to do simple addition, and instead of telling her how much change she's owed, he simply says, "Here you go," before dumping it into her hand. And then, even more mortifyingly: "Happy Christmas!"

Her head cocks to one side, a golden lock falling loose.

It's November.

_Bugger._

-

She comes by almost every day. Or, to be more specific, every weekday. Between the window of half past seven and quarter to eight in the morning. Wearing a black peacoat.

This is all fine and normal information to have.

Every day, she orders the same thing—two double-shot mocha cappuccinos, one with whole milk and one with soya. He's never seen her pick up a cup and drink before, so he can't tell which one is for her. Maybe both—she could be a "two coffees before breakfast" sort of girl, though that doesn't explain the milk. Or maybe it's neither. Maybe she hates coffee and is buying it for her boss and her boss' boss. Maybe it's how she curries favour—with overpriced coffee.

He always wants to ask her, but she leaves him too tongue-tied for anything but the most basic interactions.

It isn't _actually_ that she's pretty, though she is. _Incredibly_ pretty. It's more that she's so smiley, and that her smile makes her look about five times as pretty as a blonde woman in her twenties of average height and build ought to look. Beatific, almost. He thinks up silly, clichéd phrases to describe it: _Lit from within_. _Sparkling_. _Dazzling. Glowing like the sun. Like the moon. Like Cherenkov Radiation. Like… other things that glow._

But that's mostly during the six hours of his shift when she _isn't_ standing at his register, so cheerful and bright that he has to squint. When she _is_ around, he says vapid shit like, "Happy Christmas!" in the middle of November, and, "Nice coat," despite her wearing it every single prior day without earning a compliment.

In short: he turns into an idiot.

-

Sometime in December, he decides that he ought to do something to purge this obsession before it becomes _weird._ Because one can only admire from afar for so long; beyond a certain point, it's unhealthy in a way he can't put his finger on. Creepy. Like he's unintentionally constructing an elaborate internal life for someone he only knows the first name of—which, by the way, is Rose.

Rose who pays with a Vitex company card.

That's the information he has, and even allowing _that_ to take up space in his shoddy memory feels pretty creepy. It bumps right up alongside her coffee orders, and the memory of the way her tongue touches the corner of her teeth when she smiles.

He plans for about a week—a very distracted week, he'all admit—before coming up with an ultimately simple solution: a note on her coffee order. Something simple will do. Something friendly and not-creepy, like, "Your smile brightens this whole shop," or "I hope your day is as amazing as you." He actually bungles two separate attempts, and wastes two entire days with his inability to decide on the proper message.

But in the end, he does it.

It goes like this: She steps up to the counter, wearing her usual black peacoat and her usual friendly smile. Because she's a polite, pleasant sort of person and she's seen him every day for long enough to get familiar, she says, "Morning!"

He is used to this; he can handle it, even if her smile breaks over him like a wave of pure sunlight. "Good morning! The usual today?"

He can tell that she likes the idea of having a "usual," because her grin always stretches a little bit wider at that. When she nods, he can't help smiling, too—though he doesn't have much of an excuse for his overbearing happiness. So, he puts in the order, runs her card, and sets about the process of getting her drinks ready. It's a familiar flow, one he falls into mindlessly, thoughts already fixated on the words he wants to write.

With the same pen he uses to mark out the double shots of espresso and the milk substitution, he scribbles a message—hastily, as if he fears changing his mind, or getting caught—making a last minute choice as to which cup. 

Setting her drinks furtively on the edge of the pick-up counter, he calls her name, same as he does every day. "Rose?"

His mouth caresses the word, even as he fades back from the counter, wanting to disappear.

She collects the cups without fanfare, offering him a sincere if rather distracted "thank you," and then heading for the door. He loses sight of her as a flock of uni students barge in, eyes glazed from a lack of caffeine. It's only days before Christmas, he realizes—probably finals fatigue.

He thinks he ought to have written _Happy Christmas, properly this time!_ on her cup; it would've been cleverer than his actual message. 

But it's too late. Now, he can only hope and wait.

-

By the next morning, he's spent so much time second-guessing himself that he's begun to feel vaguely ill with it. He's run his hands through his hair so much that it all but levitates from his head, curls disrupted and disheveled.

Perhaps he's overstepped—he is, after all, just a person providing a service. Maybe there's been nothing special in her smiles: nothing for him. It's unbearable to contemplate, and almost enough to keep him home from work, even though he's trying to save up his sick days for a trip home at New Year's.

But in the end, with a pep talk about the nature of cowardice as his motivator, he comes in at the same time as usual, and does his job as usual, and tries to wait patiently for 7:30 to come.

It feels like an eternity.

But, like the sun rises inevitably each morning, she comes. On top of her black peacoat, she's wearing a scarf—a bright, festive red that brings out the flush of pink in her cheeks. And she is already smiling when she steps through the door, smiling as she stands in the usual line, smiling when she finally approaches the counter.

He wants to interpret this change, to make it mean something, but it feels presumptuous, especially when she _could_ just be feeling the usual holiday cheer. So, he tries not to blush and nods when she says, "Morning!" and makes her order.

As he pulls two tall cups down from the stack, she bites her lip and almost seems to hesitate before saying, "By the way, my father got your message." There is a mischief to her words that sucks the air right out of him—a shocking gust of familiarity and friendliness. When he looks up, she is grinning impishly. "He says, 'Thanks, but you're not his type.' Thought I'd pass that on."

For a moment, his heart races and he isn't sure what to say, but eventually, he settles on, "Ah, that's a pity. I thought we had a real connection," which seems to do well enough. She giggles—a real, living sound that dances over his ears and makes him giddy.

"He's the one who has to have whole milk," she explains, rolling her eyes fondly. "I'm vegetarian."

He tucks that knowledge away, next to the other things he's learned about her. "Good to know. I'd hate to accidentally leave a message on _your_ cup—it'd give him the totally wrong idea, and I'm really quite loyal, you know."

Once again, she gives a little laugh that makes his heart skip. He wants to keep talking to her, but she's holding up the line— _they're_ holding up the line with their odd non-flirting. "Can I get you anything else?" he asks, knowing that the answer will be _no_ and dreading the end of conversation it will inevitably bring.

Across the small countertop, Rose bites her bottom lip, leaving little white, moonlike indents in the pink skin. "Just the receipt, thanks."

The little piece of paper changes hands, and he watches the way she scribbles her signature with marked concentration. Once again, a lock of hair falls out from behind her ear, and he briefly imagines tucking it back. But before he can either interrupt or enact this little fantasy, he's hearing the click of the pen, and she's passing the signed receipt back to him. "Thanks," he answers numbly. "Happy Christmas."

She is still smiling and he still feels like he's staring directly into an expanding star as she says, "Happy Christmas, John."

Her eyes don't even flick to his name badge.

-

After handing her the ordered coffees, all his energy seems sapped away—the anxiety drains out of him like syrup, leaving him dazed as he moves through the rest of the day. He tells at least three people "Happy New Year," and feels like a complete fool, but at long last, the shop closes for the evening. And tonight, he is the one to close up.

He moves through the rituals of the night in something of a fog. Wiping countertops, shutting off lights, counting out the register under the single dim bulb. He counts up the receipts, too—and stops short when he gets to hers.

At the bottom, beneath her signature—there is more. His heart jumps sharply in his chest.

_I know you're loyal, but if you ever change your mind…_

One line down: _Call me._ And then, a sequence of numbers, which are almost blurred together—or maybe it's just that he's practically vibrating where he stands, wrinkling the thin paper between his hands. _Rose,_ he thinks. _Rose wants me to call her._

He doesn't wait. His phone is in his hand the entire walk home, and he's barely through his door before he starts to dial.

"Hello?"

"Rose?"

"John," she says warmly, her voice thrilling him down to his toes. "I was hoping you'd call."


	7. Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: cold  
> pairing: nine x rose  
> rating: general
> 
> _in which the doctor and rose discuss their christmas plans… in captivity._

Christmas morning dawns white and clear over their jail cell.

All that passes between the heavy bars is a chill light, reticently creeping toward their narrow bunk. It is the pale, sickly light of a dying star—not at all reminiscent of cozy Christmases past, spent among friends and family, good food and warm tea.

_God, tea._ Rose thinks longingly. _I could drain a whole pot right now._

That's probably true on any otherday, too. But it's especially true now, as her limbs lock from the cold and her body gives a faint shudder.

She hasn't kept track of the hours since they were hauled out of the Orbital Feast and into the dungeon complex, but the gnawing of her stomach tells her that it's been a while. Beneath her hands, where they've curled around her midsection, the forlorn organ gives a hopeful growl. Behind her, the Doctor shifts.

"Hungry?"

His arm slips around her in a natural, unambiguous way. Ever since that day—when she'd nearly lost him, when he'd nearly lost her—he's been unable to stop himself from touching her at every available opportunity. Magnetically. And she can't claim she's been any less enthusiastic: it feels freeing to be close in that way. 

Nothing stands between them now. Not anymore.

"Starving," she answers. "And cold." She says the last word with a shiver, allowing herself the indulgence of leaning further into his chest, even though he's barely as warm as she is. Against her back is the steady hammer of his heartsbeats.

He hums. "I'm sorry. This isn't how I planned for us to spend Christmas."

"How _did_ you plan for us to spend Christmas?" Curiously, she turns in the circle of his arms—uncaring of their bumping knees and the minor re-settling required to get comfortable again. The smell of leather permeates the miniscule space between them. "Finally giving in and sitting down for supper with my mum?"

It's an amusing thought, quirking her lips at the corners, and he arches his brow in answer. "I don't do families."

He does, but she won't correct him.

"What, then?"

A complicated series of emotions move across his face—a thoughtful twist of the mouth; his usual, defensive arched eyebrows; and something she can't quite interpret, something in his jaw that makes heat gather in her belly, liquid and familiar.

"You. Me. Nice, warm fire going." His arms tighten around her, and she shifts even closer, pressing them chest to chest. In such close proximity, the cold starts to feel less important. Her body starts to generate a different kind of heat. His eyes smolder, and Rose's lungs strain with the intake of several shuddering breaths. "And… I was thinking..."

"Yeah?" Her voice is mortifyingly husky, as if he's dragged the word straight from the center of her chest by force.

His dark look twists, split by a grin. " _A Muppet Christmas Carol_."

"Oh my _god,_ that's my _favourite!_ "

The Doctor's barked laugh echoes over the ceiling, and outside the door, there's the muffled shifting of feet—she'd nearly forgotten that they were being guarded. Probably watched. And she'd been thinking about jumping his bones in the middle of a jail cell!

"I know it is," he mumbles, lips brushing her hair. "Will you be angry if I tell you I've never seen it?"

Pulling away, Rose gives a dramatic gasp, hand flying up to cup her mouth in pantomimed shock. " _No._ I don't believe it."

"It's true," he confirms. He looks contrite, which is a funny expression on such a formidable face, though she's almost certain it's an act. "But I figured—now that I've met old Charlie himself—" 

Now she knows he must be teasing. His lips cannot stop twitching.

"Well, then I guess we'd better get out of here, yeah?" Rose prods, moving to break free from his hold, but his hands only tighten. She teases, "Don't want to miss the one day of the year that I can _successfully_ get you to watch something with Muppets in it."

"I tried, with that—that one in space."

His cringe makes her giggle, and she is struck with a sudden flood of fondness. It isn't unusual—only it hits her at unusual times: when he's griping about the rubbish chips in the south, or when he's lecturing her about the new safety protocols in the TARDIS, "just in case." It occurs to her that she loves him.

Just like that. And she's giggling about his aversion to puppet-based media.

And she loves him.

_Ah, well._

"Best shift, then," her mouth says, though her mind is busy turning over her new discovery.

"There was one more thing." His arms flex around her again. She can feel that his hands are a little colder than the rest of him, pressed as they are to the thin cotton of her shirt. She can feel each individual finger.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he answers. Hesitating. He is hesitating over whatever this last item on his Christmas list might be. Stopped in his tracks. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips, and she blinks with the effort not to kiss him.

It is a wasted effort, of course, because he kisses her. Warmly. It's familiar, in a way, and she's almost certain she's done this before, but she barely cares—she can work that out later. She only cares that the tip of his nose is a faint pressure against the hollow under her cheekbone, and his mouth is softer and somehow fuller than it looks, and he doesn't even know what she's just realized, but he's kissing her and it feels synchronous. 

Though, perhaps he's already realized it himself. He is kissing her like he means it. She feels herself smiling, and it makes it harder to kiss him, but it doesn't matter.

"I like this plan," she murmurs. "A Christmas well-spent."

He hums. Kisses her again. Her toes curl, and she lets her cold fingers slide into the shelter of his leather jacket, where it is warmer and his hearts beat in eager tandem. The jail cell, the dying star overhead, and the cold air fade, leaving them alone in a private, perfect bubble.

Until—

A knock comes, hammering on the door so hard that the bars rattle in the window. And the Doctor leaps up, ready for action, because he's _always_ ready to do something or try something. He grasps her smaller hand in his.

"You've got a plan?" she asks hopefully.

The Doctor nods, bracing himself at the sound of a key entering a lock. They don't have much time, but he still squeezes her fingers and spares her a glance. "You. Me. Escaping this prison cell."

Oddly, Rose is bolstered by this non-plan. 

"And then Muppets?"

"Yeah," he replies, a goofy grin on his lips. "And then Muppets."


	8. Chestnuts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: chestnuts  
> pairing: tentoo x rose  
> rating: general
> 
> _in which the doctor and rose adjust to the sweetness of their new life._

She had this vision, as a kid, of what her grown up life would look like. It was a simple picture: a stone cottage with a big front garden at the edge of a forest, and beside the house, a sweet chestnut tree.

She could never remember whether she'd seen it in a magazine or a movie, or just made it up in her own head, but it felt _real_ inside her mind—like a memory, almost.

And it _was_ real.

Just not in the way she'd expected.

-

At first, they move into a flat, because it's what makes sense. She's been working on the Dimension Hopper Project pro-bono for the past year and living in Pete's mansion out of a desire not to put down roots, and a flat seems like a nice middle ground. Relatively affordable, not permanent.

They don't even bother looking for a two-bedroom; the place they end up is a studio, where their mattress is kept off the floor with weathered pallets, and they can see straight into the shower from their bed if the shower curtain isn't closed properly. The place is barely more than a shoebox, but they don't mind, because any space at all feels like too much between them. They sleep toe to toe.

But after a few months, the Doctor starts to forget that single-room flats aren't infinite timeships, and they're certainly not designed to be rocket launching pads, no matter how insistent he is on bringing his work home with him. They run out of room, and he blows up the toaster oven, and even though they'll never get their security deposit back, they're secure enough to move—so they do.

Rose doesn't mind, and she knows he doesn't mind either. He's never been one to stay in a place for long.

The next flat is a nightmare. Roomier, but with insulation like tissue paper, making Rose's bones ache in the winter. The single-pane windows rattle when trucks roll by, which wouldn’t be a problem for _her_ , but it wakes the Doctor up _every single time,_ and Rose gets tired of the restless nights and grumpy mornings. They move after half a year, breaking their lease and ignoring their landlord's angry phone calls.

For a while, they consider moving back in with Pete and Jackie—Rose is in love with her new baby brother and craves more time with him, worried that he'll sprout up tall before she gets to know him at all. Even on the slow path, she feels that time moves too fast. She wishes she had the TARDIS—the ability to slow things down a little. 

Is it her age, or is it just that she's got something new to miss? She doesn't know.

A windfall comes in the form of Jake moving in with his new boyfriend—a bloke named Jack who has a nearly-familiar smile and an unfamiliar commitment to monogamy. His old place is perfect: close to Torchwood, recently remodeled, with an extra bedroom that would make a perfect workspace for the Doctor. Rose, when they move in, smiles at the massive windows and decides to get some potted herbs for the windowsills.

They spend two years there. On the night the Doctor proposes to her—in his usual Doctorish way, slipping it in between dinner and dessert—she thinks this is the happiest she's ever been, and she wonders if they can stay here, like this, forever.

But they can't.

Their relocation to the States feels like a bucket of icy water poured over Rose's domestic dreaming. If they'd thought their London landlords were rubbish, the ones here are worse, and even with Torchwood's relocation stipend lining their pockets, finding a decent short-term rental feels like a Herculean task. The TARDIS coral is growing so fast they could _almost_ live inside it—at least, soon—but there's no way to get it overseas. Not in its unwieldy tank.

The Doctor hates leaving the growing ship behind, and he calls Toshiko at least three times a day to ask after its progress.

They spend most of their eight months in America undercover, which is irritating, because the Doctor is crap at American accents. He sounds like he's living in a perpetual hillbilly hoedown and sometimes Rose can't even understand him—but they laugh as much as ever, and there are so many people to meet, so many chances to make things better.

When they step off the zeppelin and she feels the familiar hum of London under her feet, she takes a deep breath and sags into the circle of the Doctor's arms. "Home again," he sighs, and she can see he's just as relieved as she is.

Rose realizes that maybe it wasn't the traveling she loved—maybe it was just the Doctor all along.

They remove everything from storage and settle back into Jake's old flat, and it feels nice. Familiar. Almost perfect. She buys new herbs for the windowsill, and she plans for a winter wedding.

And then, one morning, the Doctor rolls over and takes a deep, deliberate breath with his nose against her neck and he says, "Rose, I am about to tell you something, and I need you to keep calm—too much stress isn't good for the fetus." And then, when she freezes in his arms: "Ah. Right."

She doesn't panic, but she does cry a little, and she laughs a whole lot, and then she turns over into his arms and falls back into easy sleep. The dream comes in fragments, but she remembers the image. It lingers behind her eyelids.

Stone cottage. Big garden. Chestnut tree.

And there is something new, deposited like a little paper doll in the midst of the scene—flat and untouchably perfect. A little boy in blue.

They start the house hunt the following week, and are moved in by the time the autumn leaves begin to fall, along with spiked little husks, sporting rich, dark insides that look like chocolate.

Rose gets her winter wedding. They spend the first days of their marriage roasting the chestnuts they'd collected and frozen months before—they cook them over an open fire and everything. Rose eats the tender things until she's nearly sick, savoring the earthy sweetness and the simple pleasure of consuming something grown on her own land. She only stops when the fire turns to embers and her eyelids start to droop.

Her stomach is getting rounded and as the Doctor's hand fans out across the new, swelling space—still so gentle and tentative—she feels a new sort of happiness. Smaller, and deeper, like it's sinking down into her and growing roots.

-

As a child, she'd had this vision of a place. Somewhere far away from the city lights, where she could stop searching and start finding out what made her happy. 

She thought it was possible that the vision, the image itself, didn't come from anywhere—that it was a product entirely of herself. A simple fantasy, concocted between thin, shared walls by a girl who wanted the world to be wider and simpler than it was.

Rose doesn't find out until hundreds of years and many millions of miles are between her and the sweet chestnut tree, when she stands, hand in hand in hand, in defense of the planet she's come to call home. Golden light floods through her. 

She had created it herself.


	9. Snowflake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: snowflake  
> pairing: ten x rose  
> rating: general
> 
> _in which the doctor and rose stand under the same sky and watch the snow._

The first snowflake falls as they step out of the TARDIS, and it feels like the air is hardening. There is a stiff chill, crackling like thin ice over a rushing stream. Everything braces itself, even the buildings that tower above them on all sides. The Doctor, too, braces himself.

He doesn't shiver, but Donna does. Even if she can't identify it as such, she undoubtedly feels the atmospheric pressure, and she chafes her hands against the sleeves of her coat.

"So, where are we, then?" she asks, less from curiosity than from a dedication to their usual call and response. She asks, he answers, she takes issue with his answers—a sense of stability on unfamiliar ground. But right now, her eyes dart furtively from building to building, from darkened window to darkened window. "Somewhere creepy, anyway."

"Somewhere abandoned," he corrects. There is something specific about this stillness—an absence of something. People. Life. "Everyone's been evacuated."

"Evacuated? Why?"

He tilts his head up, and the sky feels so low that he could nearly bump his nose against one of the clouds. They aren't thunderheads; they're more aggressive than that. The color of a fading bruise—sickly blue-green-yellow. They're claustrophobically close, and they make the air tingle with a different sort of pressure. This will be no average snowstorm.

Another snowflake falls, barely missing the tip of his nose. It has an odd smell.

Mildly, the Doctor says, "A storm is coming."

With his face to the sky, he cannot see Donna rolling her eyes, looking his way with her usual blend of irritation and amusement. She can rarely determine whether he's being needlessly dramatic or painfully accurate, and so treats him as performing both. "Well, that's just wizard. What are we going to do about it?"

"Nothing," he replies, and he breathes deeply. The air itself carries a sharp tang, not just the snow—almost electric, but not quite. "Something's already been done about it."

The movement of a curtain catches his eye—white, on the ground floor, whipping in a sudden wind—and the Doctor blinks. Someone's left their window open. The air current tugs at his trench coat, flattening it against his legs. The storm is starting.

"There," he points. "We're going there." When he marches forward, Donna shakes her head and follows. She pulls her hood up over her head as it starts to snow.

-

The reinforced doors lock with a click, just as the snow begins to fall.

One heavy flake drifts in, carried on the wind, and though it melts immediately, Rose can't take her eyes off of where it landed. She might be imagining the miniscule damp spot on the concrete, the tiny pockmark it makes: her eyes are exhausted, overtaxed by too many hours awake.

But she's done it. She's evacuated the city.

When she turns, they're all looking at her with a question in their eyes _: Now what?_ The problem is that she doesn't _know_ what will come next—how long the storm will last, or what they will re-emerge to find. She only knows that the readings had been unmistakable: acid, falling from the sky. The sharp spokes of the snowflakes tipped in poison, which would melt human skin in less than a second.

Her stomach twists on itself. She hopes she didn't miss anyone—that the volunteer teams had checked all the houses. There had been so little time after her landing, after she'd gotten a proper reading of the planet…

But it's too late to worry now. The doors are closed.

She wonders fleetingly if the Doctor feels like this, back in her home universe—this sense of responsibility, and fear. The eyes of the crowd feel like the touches of a thousand hands, clinging. Unable to face their expectations, she turns back to the doors.

They're strong. They will hold, even against the onslaught of corrosive snow.

Through the heavy-paned porthole window, she sees another flake fall. And another. And another. Until the air is swirling with white.

-

Donna goes through the window first, because she's smaller and much more likely to suffer if the world flash-freezes around her, though he doesn't say anything of the sort. She doesn't like to be patronized. But he's made of sturdier stuff, and so he waits outside while she scouts.

After a moment of silence, the Doctor sticks his head through the curtains, breathing in the warm, sort of dusty air that is already leaking through the open window. "Donna?"

"The door is just 'round to the left, on the side street," she calls, her voice coming from the kitchen. "I'll get the lock." He hears the rattle of the knob and the faint shift of a chain. "If you come—"

And then she makes a sound like a gasp or a scream, muffled by something. Fear. Perhaps a hand.

" _Donna!_ " he shouts.

She makes no answer. Instead, there is another yell and a different voice. "Bloody hell, stop—stop _hitting_ me _,_ I didn't mean to—"

He doesn't have time to think. Pulling back from the window, the Doctor turns the corner and pelts down the side-street in search of the doorway, sonic already outstretched. Snow is falling all around now, and a single snowflake lands on the back of his hand.

He smells burning hair. And then feels the sting.

A sense of urgency—for his sake and hers—moves him faster, dialing up the sonic to a setting that will break through just about anything, doorframe be damned. He presses the glowing end to the brass knob and it should only take a second—

But the door swings open, unexploded.

Standing in the doorway is a man, clad all in black: leather jacket, turtleneck, utility trousers with bulging pockets, boots. One arm is occupied with keeping Donna at a distance, and his face bears a menacing scowl. He would make an altogether intimidating picture, except…

"Doctor?"

Another snowflake falls, boring cruelly through the Doctor's hair and stinging his scalp. But the pain suddenly becomes unimportant. He is smiling as the man drags him through the doorway and into the shelter of the apartment.

"Mickey," the Doctor says, and the name is laughter. " _Mickey Smith._ "

-

About ten minutes pass before she realizes what's missing from this scene—or rather, who. She's been so busy trying to get people settled, to reassure them that the snowstorm _will_ eventually pass, that she didn't notice the odd absence at her side. Until someone stepped into it. And it's not him.

"Ma'am?"

He's a soldier, with close-cropped hair and a businesslike demeanor. He sounds sort of American. And he's not Mickey.

When she answers, her voice is toneless to conceal the panic. _Where is Mickey?_ "Yes?"

"Some folks are saying they're hungry. Do you think it's too early to start passing out rations?"

Trying to remember which group Mickey had gone out with, she shakes her head. "Let them eat. It'll help everyone calm down. But keep it minimal. We have more people than this place is made to hold—" _Oh my God, where is he?_ "—and they might be here for a few days."

She doesn't tell him that _she_ won't. For better or worse, she'll be gone in approximately—she checks her hopper—two hours. She tries for a signal, to use their onboard comms, but she hears only static. _Of course. The bunker._ She’s buried in feet of concrete and steel.

Two hours until she gets pulled back. _And Mickey,_ she reminds herself. Whatever shape he's in, she won't find out for two _interminable_ hours.

Surely, she hopes, he can take shelter for that long. He's a trained agent, resourceful—clever, though the Doctor always refused to see it, and she'd been scarcely less blind.

 _He'll make it,_ she thinks. _He's my best friend. I can't lose him._

Her eyes are drawn back out to the snow, the landscape obliterated by white. If he'd gotten caught out in the middle of it, in someone's back garden or on an empty street, there would be almost no way for him to make it to shelter—not before it started to—

"—ride out the storm, right?" The man is shifting on his feet as she blinks up at him.

_Micks, where are you?_

"We will be fine," she says. "All of us. We'll all be fine."

-

"Mick-Mickety-Mickey!" The Doctor pulls the human man into his arms for a long, bone-crunching hug as soon as the door is safely closed behind them, and he only releases him when Donna begins to stare. "What brings you to these parts? Actually, what _are_ these parts? And what's going on with that snow out there? Was that _acid_ I detected?"

But Mickey, whether because of his natural dull-headedness or for some other reason, doesn't answer right away. His mouth goes slack, and he keeps shooting vague glances at Donna, who has given up fighting in favor of pointed glaring.

"I can't believe it," Mickey mutters. "I can't believe..."

"Well, you'd best try, Mickey, old boy," the Doctor says cheerfully, "because if that _is_ acid raining from the sky, we'll need to find the sub-levels of this building— _fast._ "

"Doctor, who is this?" Donna interrupts, arms crossed over her bulky coat. "Thought you said you'd never been here before."

He nods once, briskly. "Never have. We used to travel together, Mickey and me."

"It's actually you," Mickey comments, still looking more flabbergasted than the situation warrants. They have more urgent problems than his inability to believe the evidence of his eyes, and the Doctor begins to scan the apartment for some sort of basement access. "And—who are you?" Mickey's gaze flashes toward Donna, heated.

"Oh, that's my mate, Donna Noble. We're traveling together."

"Your _mate_?"

"He means 'friend,'" Donna hurries to reply, her voice trailing after him. With the tip of his toe, he kicks up the edge of an old carpet. No cellar entry, alas. "We're not together." The Doctor grins; it's the same old song and dance, everyone mistaking them for a couple.

"It's nice to meet someone else like me, though," his companion adds, reaching out to shake Mickey's hand. He watches the interaction with barely-repressed amusement. "Someone who's traveled with this _lunatic._ "

"But you're _fine,_ " Mickey cries, his eyes back on the Doctor. "She said you'd be alone, that you'd be—"

"She?" Despite himself, the Doctor's ears perk up. Had Mickey befriended some kind of seer? That might be useful for figuring out exactly _what_ had caused the acid snow.

" _Rose._ "

And, just like that, the air is gone from his lungs.

_Oh._

_Rose._

It's not that he doesn't think about her—only it's been so long since someone other than _him_ has said her name. He'd nearly forgotten that she wasn't a figment of his imagination.

The Doctor stands perfectly still. It feels as if he's fallen from a great height and landed in a heap, sputtering like a fish. _Rose._ Her name is too sharp, a shard of something wedged in his throat.

And then he thinks, _Stupid Doctor. Stupid, stupid Doctor,_ because how had he failed to connect these obvious, planet-sized dots? _Mickey was here._

"She's here?" He forces the question out. And then, with a glance at the swirling snow storm: "She's out _there?_ " He's already moving toward the door, plans swirling half-formed in his mind, only to be discarded as ineffectual. He can't get to the TARDIS, but if he can use the sonic, move through the apartment complex and follow the overhanging rooftops from there, keep himself sheltered until the last possible second—

"No," comes Mickey's reply. It's a relief and an ache all at once. "She's in the bunker with everyone else. Rose was the one who broke into the base, to sound the alarm, and who set up the evacuation teams. I was just doing a final sweep when the snow started."

 _Rose._ Of course she would be the one to evacuate the city. That would be her first priority when she worked out the weather situation.

He beams with pride at the image the thought evokes: Rose, with her hair up and her pink cheeks, helping people through a narrow doorway, guiding a crowd with the cheerful sound of her voice and her gentle hands. Rose, telling everyone to keep calm—that they'll be all right, that she's going to save them. Rose, wearing her sternest frown when an officer refuses to sound the alarm.

_Rose._

"She's safe, then."

He glances up in time to see Mickey's half-smile, almost a smirk, as if he finds this situation entertaining. "Safer than we are."

Once again, the Doctor's mind whirs into action. "How do we get to the bunker? We're not safe here." _I want to see her,_ he doesn't say. "Will the snow eat through the buildings?"

"Can't say for sure, but I don't _think_ so. Everything looks sturdy so far. But we could try—"

Donna's snort interrupts his thoughts. "Not a chance." Both man and Time Lord look at her in surprise. "We're not melting today, and you're not going out on some suicide mission. This place has _got_ to have a basement—a boiler room, at least. Or laundry room. Right? Though,” she adds under her breath, “I’m not sure either of you would recognize one if you saw it.”

Mouth dry, the Doctor attempts to swallow. It is only Donna's approach, her uncharacteristically gentle touch on his arm, that brings him back to earth. "Doctor," she says firmly. Her voice is calm. "Rose is going to be fine. We'll go find her—after."

Across the room, Mickey is suspiciously quiet. He turns, and begins to search.

-

She hates herself for it, but she looks at the falling snow and she thinks of the Doctor.

By all the readings, he should be here. And for a brief, horrible moment, she imagines him and Mickey suffering from the same fate—trapped outside in that bitter, burning snow storm. He _could_ be here and she'd never really know, trapped uselessly in this bunker.

She only just stops herself from commanding the guards to open the doors, to let her out. But the low babble of voices—safe voices, voices that are alive because of Mickey's efforts and her own—stops her. She isn't useless, she reminds herself. She's saving people.

Like the Doctor.

She looks up at the swirling snow and the memory of his voice comes in tandem.

_"It's the spaceship breaking up in the atmosphere. This isn't snow, it's ash."_

_"Okay, not so beautiful."_

If she concentrates, she can feel the cool, calming pressure of his hand in hers. She can feel the biting cold on her cheeks, making everything feel sharper and brighter and more important, somehow.

_"So, where are we gonna go first?"_

_"Erm, that way. No, hold on._ That _way."_

And he'd pointed up at the whole universe, a gesture that encompassed the entire wide sky.

Despite herself, Rose smiles.

-

When they both tumble onto Torchwood's landing pad, Mickey is the first on his feet, already racing for her before she can get her bearings. "Rose," he's shouting, "Rose, I saw him!"

Her head aches, like always, and Mickey's voice in her ear doesn't help any.

"What?"

"The Doctor! I saw the Doctor, he was _there,_ and he had this woman with him—cor, has she got an arm on her—and we hid in the cellar, and he wanted to look for you," he babbles, dragging her up to her feet. He braces both hands against her shoulders and looks into her eyes seriously. "Rose, he was okay. He wasn't alone. He's safe, for now."

It's too much information, it gets all broken up on its way to her ears, but she sags when she hears that the Doctor is okay. Her tired limbs propel her into Mickey's arms. _First things first._ "I'm glad you're all right," she mutters into his collar.

"Oh, 'course I am—I can survive anything," he carelessly insists. "But Rose, he wanted me to tell you…"

"Yeah?"

She pushes back, far enough to see Mickey's face. He wears a familiar smirk—one that clearly expresses amusement, but not at her expense. He looks about to laugh.

"We were looking at the snow, right, before we found the cellar access—and he wanted me to tell you, because I think he knew we’d be gone—he wanted to say—"

Rose's heart races, and she wishes her friend would just _spit it out._

Mickey beams. " _Merry Christmas_."

-

The snow looks a lot lovelier from the TARDIS, falling in glimmering pinpricks through the pale sky.

That _could_ be because he's balanced the pH levels, but he prefers to think of it as something more metaphysical—like the calm that follows a storm. The snowflakes are nearly floating; their descent towards the planet is just soft and pleasant drifting. They will land on upturned faces and cheerful smiles from a population who owes their survival to Rose Tyler.

And maybe a little bit to the Doctor.

But it's a team effort.


	10. Candle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: candle  
> pairing: twelve x rose  
> rating: nsfw
> 
> _in which the doctor and rose try something new._

At the heart of their bedroom is a small table, which has become, throughout their time together, a visual manifestation of their current thoughts and passions—of themselves. On it sits at least a dozen small projects, all of which the Doctor has taken to working on in the middle of the night. Metal bits and wire, tangled and inconclusive. And other things: a length of rope, satiny-soft and shiny, loosely knotted; a plant that only grows in low light; several glossy shells from a beach they've only just visited, with even, perfectly-sized holes like hag stones.

And, off to the side, one of Rose's charcoal sketches, half-finished and sharp-lined: an image of the Doctor in a past body, jumping off the page with the usual exuberance. Still so close to the surface. She hadn't completed it when he'd changed, altogether unexpectedly, and now it will sit permanently unfinished.

A sketch of a moment in time, which has now passed.

She runs a hand over the edge of the paper, her eyes drifting to the lit candle nearby. The flame flickers, and for a moment, she's tempted to touch her fingers to that, too. The eager hand curls back to her side, waiting.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks, his voice hushed and low. She's still getting used to it—to not jumping when the unfamiliar accent touches her ears. There is no stranger: he only sounds like one.

She knows that he isn't just idly asking. He would give up this night, his plans for it, entirely—she only has to ask. But she doesn't want to. Through her body runs a low current of excitement, of curiosity, that he can almost certainly pick up after so many years together.

A smile tossed over her shoulder serves as an answer. 

He watches her greedily as she settles atop their bed, on the canvas sheet that covers and protects the soft, blue quilt beneath. She sheds her fluffy old robe—it's outlasted several bodies, and there's something endlessly amusing in that—and waits, cross-legged and thrumming with energy. "How do you want me?"

At one time, he'd've said something like _however you're comfortable,_ or _constantly and obsessively,_ or _hell if I know!_ Something either trite or adoring. But now he just tilts his head and says, "On your back." Steady. Scottish. Is she _ever_ going to adjust to that?

It's not really a question. She's done it before, and she'll do it again. She just likes to pretend that the novelty will last forever.

Stretching her legs out, pointing her toes, Rose gives a little shiver. Her body has changed, by necessity and by time, as the years have passed—roots grown out to chocolate brown locks, extra padding where there was once tough muscle, slow-growing signs of age. She's not used to being exposed like this; he's so tactile, she never has to wait more than a moment for his patience to run out. But now she is.

Waiting, that is.

She sort of adores the feeling.

He moves through the room smoothly, if a bit absent-mindedly, eyes moving between her and the table. It's not performative—she's always known the Doctor would walk off the TARDIS without his head attached, were it physically possible. But there's a subtly different energy, a lethargy to his movements as he collects the oil and the aloe—flicks his fingers through the flame, no doubt acting on an impulse similar to her own—lays out a thin, bone-white stone that she knows will later scrape the hardened wax away. She's done the research.

Rose shivers.

With the little bottle in his hand, the Doctor sinks down beside her on the bed, and the dip of the mattress slides her closer to him. His wool trouser leg abrades her hip, and she tries not to react to the oddity of him remaining fully clothed while she's completely exposed, but doesn't quite succeed. She nibbles her bottom lip, which he sees—and he says, "If you want me to stop, for any reason, you know what to do."

She does, and she nods, taking a deep breath that hollows her belly. Pale blue eyes follow the motion, and she watches the way his hand flexes around the bottle, the other resting motionless in his lap. 

It's always different, body to body. Historically, he has been exuberant, eager. This time around, he seems tentative about touch. He always needs her—this she knows—but the _how_ can be so different. He reminds her of those first tentative months aboard the TARDIS: always wishing he'd reach out and touch her, never feeling like it was enough.

He uncaps the bottle, and tilts it just so, enough for a few drops to escape and patter against her stomach, landing a little above her navel. She tenses and releases, somehow expecting the oil and feeling unprepared for it at the same time, but then his hand follows to rub it in. Cool and familiar, it calms her suddenly-racing heart.

His lips twitch, but he doesn't quite smile as he says, "Cold?" Her goosebumps speak for themselves. His eyes are sparkling.

"I'll enjoy it while it lasts," she comments, trying to sound dry, unaffected, but she knows herself well enough to see she's failing. Her hands are fidgeting with the blanket, wanting to reach for him while he works the oil into her stomach, her sides, the bottom curve of her breasts, the tops of her thighs. Patient and slow.

He huffs a little laugh, and she's already fond of the sound, even if she doesn't yet know it has to be earned. That she will always be working for it, seeking it out. 

Her own smile is much more generous and easily summoned. "Never thought I'd be grateful for your cold hands."

The only reply she gets is his thumb dipping playfully into the divot of her belly-button, making the muscles of her abdomen flex and flinch. The palm of his hand is shiny with oil now, and she imagines her skin looks much the same in the dim light, softly gold like the candle. He draws back to set aside the bottle, reaching instead for that tiny flame which has been burning so eagerly for the past twenty minutes. The fire trembles as it is moved through the air.

"Ready?" he asks, so calm.

_Almost_. "Will you kiss me?"

One corner of his mouth lifts, and her heart thuds unevenly beneath her ribs. But instead of bending towards her face like she expects, he takes her closer hand in his and pulls it to his lips—pressing a soft touch to the base of her thumb, drifting over the fleshy part of her palm. His breath is warm and even, and she feels the faint touch of his tongue—or she imagines she does—before he sets her hand back at her side.

And then, without warning, the candle tilts above her.

There is something entrancing about the way the flame itself doesn't change—it continues to scrabble and seek high ground while the wick shifts beneath. The whole candle moves, but the flame remains the same. She is thinking about this in an abstract sort of way when the first drops of wax meet her skin.

She gasps at the sting, stomach leaping and dropping all at once. A miniscule puddle forms below her navel, on the rounded part of her belly, and she tries to stay still lest the burning liquid act on gravity's command and seek lower, more sensitive ground. It is only with great concentration that she slows her breathing, stills her trembling muscles.

The wax starts to cool after a moment, but a faint prickle remains, her skin lighting up with a thousand small sensory responses. Too hot, comfortingly warm, liquid smooth—all at once. Like a touch, but sharper and more precise. It's a lot to process, and he's barely gotten started.

"Rose?"

Her eyes slide open—she hadn't been aware of closing them, but she sees the married concern and satisfaction on his face and determines not to close them again.

With a tiny dip of her chin, she says, "Keep going." Breathlessly.

His lips tilt with the candle, and more wax comes pattering down like scouring rain.

He works slowly, but in a way, that is _more_ difficult to deal with—he's unpredictable, stopping and starting and always pausing so he can listen to her hammering heartbeat. Once, when an especially large splash batters her ribcage, her hand flutters up from the bed as if to reach for the candle—or for anything that might pause the sensation. Her breath leaves in a rush, and she makes a noise that is both like and unlike a moan.

He captures her wrist, pressing her palm back to the canvas, and the subtle restraint makes her breathing hitch. Not from pain. Not this time. She thinks longingly of the rope and says nothing.

"How does it feel?" he asks in a soft tone, his thumb pressing tenderly against skin and bone. It moves in a gentle spiral that is reminiscent of other, more intimate touches, and her thighs shift against one another.

"Like you're pouring hot wax on me," she answers honestly. He gives another amused little huff, and she smiles up at him. She tries again, because she knows he'd like to hear the truth. "Strange. Good."

"Good." He sounds pleased, and she holds on to that while another rivulet of heat pours over her, traveling up between her breasts in a thin line. Scorching. Too much, too concentrated, not enough. This time, his hand follows, releasing her wrist to touch down against the hot wax. 

His skin is comparatively cool, and she shivers a little. He sets aside the candle.

"Thank you for letting me do this," he says, almost unconsciously, eyes fixed on the patch of skin where he has begun to trace heated, fluid circles—painting in the wax. He looks hypnotized. "I know I say this all the time, but humans really are amazing creatures. So strong."

His other hand traces an opposite path downwards, stopping to tap against the hardened shell atop her stomach. It makes her muscles twitch, and the slight, pinching pleasure-pain of the solid wax tugging her soft skin is one she feels, impossibly, between her legs.

"And you're the strongest one I know." He doesn't speak it like a compliment, but it makes her cheeks heat nonetheless. Everything is heat now; even his hands are coming to near-human temperature. "Is it wrong of me, Rose, to want to test it? To see that strength for myself?"

She shakes her head, abstracted and entranced by the way his upper hand rubs the wax into her skin. It is more like a massage than she'd expected—he works with the same deftness and anatomical certainty. Her tension starts to melt away, leaving only the faint endorphin rush of pain now passed, and the soft, liquid feel of the motion.

Once satisfied with his creation, he reaches for the candle again, his wax-coated fingers hovering slightly away from the others. The hand between her thighs presses softly into her, and her hips flex and rise against him, seeking greater pressure.

"Can you take a little more?"

"Mm," she sighs. She knows she can—in fact, she feels that bubbling eagerness from before and thinks she'd _like_ to. "Please."

This time, when the wax spills over her skin, her shuddering breath is unmistakably a moan. But that is less to do with the staggering heat, and more to do with his clever opposite hand, which plays her expertly. Unfamiliar fingers, but the same feeling—the same touches, studied and committed to memory, play out against her as the wax slides. The two sensations twine and tangle until the discomfort is indistinguishable from the desire, and her chest heaves, unable to stop the trickling wax from descending toward her belly.

And then, an accompaniment. "Beautiful," he murmurs.

Her cheeks feel burning hot, and her stomach trips over itself in its attempts to leap from her body, and she wishes that he would just kiss her, or press harder, deeper, or _something,_ but she realizes just as quickly that she adores this—this _yearning_. This hope for something that may never arrive. It's bittersweet and blissful.

She swallows down another moan as more droplets fall, and then she hears the rustle of motion—her eyes are closed again, she notices, despite her best efforts—and then, he is near her. A voice in her ear, and a weight in the air that doesn't quite land. "Thank you for allowing me this precious, perfect thing," he says, while his fingers work and his other hand trails through the wax in matching spirals, and her breath stalls in her chest. "This gift."

She is not a gift—she is a stubborn and insatiable woman, selfish and careless and callous and—

His lips brush her ear. Barely a touch, and less than a kiss. 

"I love you," on a breath. "Thank you for being with me." 

And the brightness that blooms behind her eyelids obliterates the candle, the low light of their bedroom. It's all inside her—golden, as her body hums and her muscles shiver in rhythmic release. The tiny pinches of hard wax make her tremble, stuttering through aftershocks, sensitized and insensate. Each time she thinks she's gotten a handle on it, another flicker of near-pain sparks over her nerve endings. 

She thinks it might go on forever. Fortunately and unfortunately, it doesn't.

When she opens her eyes, the Doctor is there, just close enough to kiss, severe eyebrows softened—by a smile. Small and soft, but true and earned.

Tentatively, her hand—now free, and trembling—rises to touch the corner of his new mouth, the curve of his new jaw. A new, beloved face. Her voice comes out a hoarse whisper: “I love you, too.” And she always will.


	11. Mistletoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: mistletoe  
> pairing: thirteen x rose  
> rating: general
> 
> _in which the doctor and rose are set up on a blind date._

Okay, so she was gorgeous.

Which was great. Just _fantastic_.

Jane considered herself a woman of taste, in possession of a discerning eye—two discerning eyes, in fact—and she could see well enough that, at the very least, she'd have to thank Jack for thinking she belonged anywhere _near_ this woman's league. As far as she was concerned, they weren't even playing the same sport, because her date was… properly beautiful.

Undeniably. Almost too beautiful to look at, standing against the backdrop of fairy lights which spilled down behind her like molten sparks.

And that was _before_ Jane saw her smile.

After, she was just about doomed.

-

They'd agreed to meet at Kew Gardens, despite the frigid weather, for the special holiday show. It was an innocuous place, large and highly public—and walking through the humid hothouse, populated with sweet-smelling flowers and ivies climbing the walls, would certainly be more interesting than sitting in the dark of a theater, not saying anything to one another. At least, _she_ thought so, and she could only hope her date would agree.

To her way of thinking, the botanical gardens and their leafy occupants were stimulating enough to, theoretically, give them plenty to talk about. Which was really the whole point of this date. According to Jack, they were both new to London—or newly _returned_ to London—and wanted to meet people, make friends. One couldn't do that while a soundtrack played, or whilst stuffing their mouth with food.

Jack hadn't planned the where, of course—only the who. The particulars had been left up to her.

Which made things naturally more terrifying.

But her name was Rose, wasn't it? And that was to do with plants...

Jane tried not to trip over her own feet as she stepped closer to the incandescently beautiful woman who was, apparently, here to see her. She stretched out a hand, as if to shake. "Hi, I'm Doc—I mean, Jane. God, sorry." She withdrew her hand _just_ as Rose started to extend her own, and they both made awkward little noises, similar to laughter, but not quite the same. "I've been at a conference all week; it's thrown me right off—I was about to start rattling off credentials."

At that, Rose's smile softened, becoming a little bit more genuine—more interested. "I can call you 'Doctor,' if you like. I know how hard you lot work for those titles." Her voice had that rhythmic, familiar southerly quality that spoke to a life spent in London, and Jane liked it immediately.

"Call me Jane," she insisted. "Please."

"And I'm Rose," her date warmly replied, reaching her hands out once more and firmly taking Jane's between them. More than a handshake—it was a gesture of goodwill that flipped Jane's stomach like clothes in a washer. "Rose Tyler."

As if she could ever forget.

-

Under the warm interior lights, Rose wasn't any less blisteringly beautiful. She seemed enamoured of everything from the very start, eyes catching on glossy leaves and bright-hued blossoms, pausing often with a dreamy expression on her face that was so incandescent, so intimate, Jane felt like a voyeur.

And yet, she couldn't look away.

They trailed from exhibit to exhibit, making small talk that felt like the start of something bigger. Where they'd been before London, and why they'd come back; where they were from originally, and how those places had changed in the intervening years; how they knew Jack—which, in both of their cases, was rather a funny story.

They were both wanderers, it seemed, though their intentions had been different when they set out. Both in love with the world, no matter how cruel it seemed to be. It was all so charmingly easy, and light, and it left plenty of space for subtle silences that made Jane's heart pound.

"I never knew there were so many kinds of ivy," Rose observed. She reached out a hand to brush along one large, almost heart-shaped leaf. "I suppose you see it everywhere, but—not like this."

When she said _this_ , she seemed to gesture to the whole place. Her eyes flicked up to the arched ceiling, the crowds of people. There _was_ something special in it, Jane had to agree—the collective observation of what nature had created and human hands had cultivated. To see such beauty protected, sheltered from the bitter winter winds. And to see things like common ivies in such an exalted place, tucked amidst showier, rarer, more exotic blooms…

She stood beside Rose, watching her small fingers move against the green. " _Hedera canariensis_ ," Jane said. "Algerian ivy."

"Do you know much about plants?" Rose asked, turning back to Jane.

She shrugged. "A little. Only took one botany class, and I wasn't very good at it. But I got that off the plaque." Rose followed the gesture of her hand to where the little brass marker emerged from the ground, bearing a plaque with the scientific and colloquial names of this particular plant.

"Oh, of course." Rose giggled, and it bubbled like champagne in Jane's stomach.

"I've always been more… well, I guess I keep my head in the clouds. Or, stars, rather." She wanted to kick herself for her fumbling inability to move beyond smalltalk, into the realm of things she _really_ cared about.

But Rose didn't notice her awkwardness, and instead nodded eagerly. "Right—you study astrology?"

"Astronomy," Jane corrected automatically, prompting Rose to blush. "But don't worry, everyone gets it wrong."

That didn't seem to comfort her date. "Right." Her mortification was obvious, and as her hand fell away from the leaf, she began walking again, face hidden. "Sorry."

Jane worriedly followed. "As far as astrology goes," she offered, "all I know is that I'm a Gemini." Her voice was joking, but her eyes earnestly watched Rose, hoping to dissipate her discomfort.

"Ah." Rose's grin re-appeared, shy and soft. "And what does that mean?"

"Haven't the foggiest," Jane admitted, and Rose gave a light little laugh. "I can tell you where it is in the night's sky, why it got that name and what the legends are, what sort of stars are in the constellation itself—but I can't make out what on _Earth_ it has to do with me!"

"That's a relief," her date confessed, and though her voice was teasing, Jane believed her. "I was beginning to worry you were entirely too smart for me." One dark, elegant brow arched as she added, "You still might be. I never finished uni, you know."

Suddenly pensive, Jane procured an oft-repeated piece of wisdom—words that had provided some small comfort throughout her own childhood, which she had spent surrounded by seemingly brighter beings than herself. “My mum always said, ‘No such thing as too smart, and no such thing as not smart enough: each person has their own sort of brilliance.’ And I think—” and she paused to smile gently at Rose. “I think you’re quite brilliant, just as you are.”

The compliment re-lit Rose’s face, and when she looped her arm through Jane’s to walk onward, the lonely doctor felt a rush of joy that threatened to swallow her entirely.

-

They’d made it through the better part of the exhibition when Rose paused, looking back over her shoulder with a wistful sigh. Outside now, the sprawling, golden-lit greenhouse looked like a snow globe, filled with green growing things and new, warm memories bouncing around. The evening’s chill was beginning to set in, and Jane didn’t miss how Rose leaned nearer, her hands tucked ever tighter into the curve of her elbow.

“This was lovely,” Rose said. “I’m not ready for it to end.”

Jane couldn’t help but agree. Rose had proven herself to be every bit as brilliant as she’d expected, regaling Jane with tales of her time as an international aid volunteer. They’d both traveled extensively, but often to completely different places; each story that unfolded between them felt immediately understood, and intensely appreciated, and Jane stumbled over her words less and less the more they talked. She and Rose both knew what it was to be uprooted, and their mutual understanding seemed to tangle them closer together, bringing them toward intimacy with an unexpected rapidity.

But—Rose was looking at her now, waiting for an answer with crimson staining her cheeks. Dark enough to be seen, even out under the fairy lights and crescent moon.

Jane softened. “Let's not end it, then."

They walked, arm and arm, in silence for a long moment, making their way to the shelter of a large tree. Though they moved with cautious aimlessness, both came to a halt beneath its branches, and Jane was suddenly grateful for the separation it created between them and the others touring the grounds. Rose’s breath came out in billowing, white puffs that floated with the snow, and Jane felt her own heartbeat speed up at the ephemeral sight.

She hadn't expected things to go so well—to be so easy. Only rarely had she been able to forge these sorts of authentic connections, or enjoy the chatter of an unfamiliar voice. But Rose's bright eyes made her feel like far more than a stranger, and her easy acceptance of Jane's nomadic life and multitudinous interests felt somehow like a sign.

And she was so _beautiful_ , besides.

"Oh!" Rose's voice interrupted her thoughts, pulling Jane's glazed eyes upwards, over Rose's pink-cheeked face and above their heads.

There, in the branches, hung a small bundle of mistletoe. Tied with red ribbon and coated with frost, it had no doubt been left by some intrepid volunteer gardener—a gentle encouragement for wayward couples. Jane took it as another sign.

" _Viscum album_ ," she said.

"Hm?"

Rose's gaze dropped back to hers, eyes sparkling.

"I would like to kiss you," Jane said, not willing to take anything for granted. Her voice felt shaky, her accented words clumsy, but Rose didn't recoil.

Her soft gaze remained, her lips stayed parted, and it occurred to Jane that Rose was waiting—that she herself had taken the assertive position.

And then: "Lucky thing, then. I'd like to be kissed." Rose just stood, and sparkled, and waited, her lips curved in the sweetest of smiles. "Very much."

It was all the invitation Jane needed.

Leaning in to close the space between them, she felt the warmth of Rose's breath—inhaled the fresh scent of her shampoo under the chilly, green scent that filled the cold night. The bare, soft pressure of lips meeting lips.

It was the most perfect thing she could imagine, and she never wanted to stop.

When Rose's cold hands reached gently up to brush her cheeks, to tangle into her hair, Jane decided that she simply never would.


	12. Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: tree  
> pairing: nine x rose  
> rating: general
> 
> _in which rose collides with the owner of a christmas tree farm and meets his precocious daughter._

When she enters town, the first thing she sees is the tree lot. 

It's a bit shabby, but festive—a hand-painted sign at the end of the drive, advertising the wares (namely: Christmas trees); a pop-up shed that looks to have been set up temporarily about ten years ago and hasn't moved since; a few eclectically-decorated sample trees, as if to give the uncertain shopper some aesthetic inspiration to take on their search. It's all very small-town. Quaint. Idyllic, even.

It gives her hope, though she'd never dream of admitting it. It makes her think that maybe— _maybe_ —it won't be so bad here, in this unfamiliar town, during her least favourite time of year. She slows while driving by, peering at the decorated trees. 

One in particular catches her eye. It seems to have a sci-fi theme, starting with a UFO tree-topper beaming down on top, as if to abduct the ornaments that float on nearly invisible wires and hangers, and ending at the bottom with a scene of carnage—crashed ships, fake tinsel-and-tissue-paper flames, and plastic aliens invading. It's quite creative, she muses with a smile, if a bit… _grim,_ for a Christmas tree.

Still humming pleasantly, she turns her eyes back to the road, barely in time to notice an old red pickup lurching out of the lot in front of her. She hasn't driven in years, so her reflexes are slow, but she slams on the brakes—hoping she'll be fast enough.

That hope is utterly gone by the time she hears the crunch of metal and plastic colliding, followed swiftly by the sound of her own voice. " _Shit!_ "

Rose takes a moment to catch her own breath; under her coat, her heart beats out a vicious, speeding rhythm of near-panic. She prides herself on being good in a crisis, but in her life, they don't often look like _this_ —crashing her rental in the middle of an unfamiliar town. So, she gives herself several seconds to breathe deeply and prepare for whatever she'll find once she gets out. It's not how she _wanted_ to meet the locals, but—she glances out her front window and sees the pickup's driver side door swing open, a bulky body moving with it—it's a bit late for that.

The words "I'm so sorry" are already on her lips, but she doesn't get the chance to say them. As she pulls the door open, the other driver lopes around the back of the pickup. She can make out that it's a man, tall and broad, wearing a knit cap and a heavy, faded flannel that would probably be a thrifted treasure to some teenager in the city. Here, it looks utterly ordinary. He reaches into the bed of his truck and withdraws an axe. Large, sharp-looking, and hefted over his shoulder like it weighs nothing at all.

That's when Rose starts to properly worry. Is he coming to cut her out of the car? Is he going to take out his rage on her unsuspecting rental?

Oddly, it never occurs to her that he might be coming for _her._ He just doesn't seem the type.

Forcing herself out of the car on shaking legs, she calls, "Are you all right?" She clears her throat as he shoots her a brief, unimpressed glance. "I'm… so sorry," she finally manages. "I was just—I was distracted by the displays, and when I looked back up—"

"Jenny!" The man calls over his shoulder, and it's like he isn't paying the _slightest_ attention to her and her excuses. She'd be put off by his rudeness if she wasn't focused entirely on that gleaming, terrible blade over his shoulder. Surely he doesn't think he can _fix_ the vehicles with it—only make them significantly worse. Oblivious to her thoughts, he continues his unhurried approach, coming to stare at the point of contact between their vehicles.

He huffs once, unreadable.

"Dad?"

"Come on out, love!" He calls, not looking up. His brows are heavy, ominous as the slate-colored sky. "This lady likes your trees." She hadn't noticed the darkening clouds overhead; a storm must be coming. And he precedes it, glaring pitilessly at the twisted plastic remains of her front headlight.

Seconds later, Rose manages to tear her eyes away from him—only to see a little wool-wrapped figure darting out from the shed, trailed by a long, multi-colored scarf. Her blonde hair is tucked under a hat, but it doesn't do much good. Locks tumble out helter-skelter.

The little girl whistles. "Oh, that looks _bad._ "

"Looks worse than it is," the strange man says. It's the first hopeful thing Rose has heard since the crunch of their collision, and she immediately looks to him for more information. "Barely even a scratch on the truck. But you'll need a new headlight." She doesn't even know he's talking to her until his eyes flash upwards. A bright, startling blue.

"Right. And you're—" Rose swallows, the relief taking her out like a strong gust of wind. She sags against the side of the rental. "You're _sure_ you're okay?"

She can only tell he's amused by the faint upward twitch of his lips. "Like I said. Barely a scratch."

"Which tree d'you like best?" the little girl— _Jenny_ , Rose recalls—pipes up, vying for the attention of a no doubt interesting stranger. 

Rose's head feels light as it twists on her neck. Maybe she ought to have checked whether _she's_ hurt. But, no—she simply smiles down at the girl with bright-blonde hair and says, "The one with the aliens."

The gleam of triumph in the girl's eyes is unmistakable. "See, Dad?" She nudges him with one pale little hand. "Told you! It's a classic!"

Rose very much doubts that Jenny is old enough to know a classic _anything,_ but she can't help laughing anyway. The man's lips make another tiny twitch of suppressed amusement, and then Rose notices that he's got his mobile out, in the hand not holding the axe. "Which rental company did you use?"

"The local one," she replies automatically. She'd considered one of the bigger chains, but she thought she'd start the trip off right—support the small businesses that sporadically ventured into the city. Something occurs to her. "How'd you know it was a rental?"

He doesn't answer, instead proceeding to dial. While it rings, he shifts the axe down off his shoulder. "Jenny, would you take this back inside? And," as she starts to skip off, "the rope in the back, too."

The little girl nods, balancing the axe over her narrow shoulder in clear pantomime, through it's nearly as tall as she is. As she turns her back, it occurs to Rose that the blade looks so shiny because it's got a thick plastic cover, dulling the blade. She feels oddly relieved.

When she looks up at the man, it's plain that he's been watching the thoughts unfold over her face. He just holds the mobile to his ear, smirking.

The mischief fades abruptly when his call goes through, and then it's all surly details, obvious familiarity, and she begins to think that maybe this town is _too_ small—alarmingly quaint. The sort of place where one could have a collision with someone who knows the first name of the bloke who owns the rental company. Jack had told her it was small, charming, and given her directions to his boyfriend's bed and breakfast.

_"Ianto would love to have you. And it's perfect for the holidays,"_ he'd said. _"Perfect for an escape."_

"Name?" The man's voice jars her out of her thoughts, and she realizes she's been rudely—if dazedly—staring at him. At his jaw, to be more precise. It's quite sharp, really. Like the axe.

"Rose," she manages. "Rose Tyler."

And it's a funny thing: when he repeats her name into the phone, it sounds… different. Like she's hearing it for the first time, spoken back to her. He says it with a thoughtfulness that has never been warranted before, and in a tone that is wholly unfamiliar. _Rose Tyler,_ he says, and it occurs to her that she doesn't know his name.

She doesn't know _anything_ about him, except he's got a precocious little daughter and works on a Christmas tree farm and has lovely eyes. She doesn't know him at all.

But, she thinks, she _wants_ to.


	13. Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: peace  
> pairing: eleven x rose  
> rating: teen (language)
> 
> _in which a plane is grounded, hotel vouchers are distributed, and there is a mix-up._

"I don't even know how something like this would happen," he says. "Surely they have protocols for an instance of overbooking. There must be a mistake." His brow is furrowed. He speaks earnestly, like he's worried she won't believe him, and she wouldn't—she's not particularly trusting, whether by her own nature or by the nature of the world.

Only, his cheeks are a vivid, punishing red. He looks so embarrassed that his body is practically vibrating with it, and he doesn't look her quite in the eye, instead sagging strangely beneath his floppy mop of hair. "I can go down—the check-in desk, I'm sure they—"

"No," Rose says. "Don't."

-

When she boarded the plane, he was already there. In the middle seat, no less, which once again left her bemoaning the inefficient systems by which airplanes were boarded.

Windows, middle seats, aisles. Was it really so complicated?

She'd imagined that somewhere like Switzerland would have this logistical quandary sorted out by now. But no, she was forced to politely inform a perfect stranger that she was supposed to sit in the window seat, and if he wouldn't mind moving his ridiculously long legs, she would just appreciate it so much.

She didn't say it exactly like that, but—nearly.

Because, she observed, his legs _were_ rather ridiculously long, all denim-clad and folded up beneath the tray table, upon which he had already set up a full complement of professional-looking gadgetry. How had he gotten aboard with all those _wires_ , anyway?

When she spoke, he looked up at her, and her first thought—beyond the observation of his ungainliness—was that he had an odd face. Not in an unpleasant way. Just odd. Visually inconclusive. She didn't know what to make of it, or his response to her interruption—in fact, his pleasant and immediate smile made it clear she wasn't a nuisance at all. He shifted to put his laptop and mouse and all that other alarming-looking gear atop his own chair and shuffled out into the aisle, gesturing politely.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're most welcome." His reply was accompanied by an even wider smile, showing all his teeth and crinkling up the corners of his eyes.

She couldn't imagine why he was so smiley, given the insanely ineffective boarding process, and the promise of a day spent in a stuffy plane.

She _could_ conclude, however, that he had rather nice eyes.

-

She doesn't know why she says it. Like a command. "Don't." She tries to make it sound less demanding by adding, "I hate sleeping in hotel rooms. They always give me the creeps." It is a lame excuse, but she hopes he will accept it—take it for what it is.

An invitation.

"You'd rather share with a perfect stranger?" he asks archly, but he's already moving through the room, his carry-on rolling behind him. He makes straight for the window—a tall thing, floor to ceiling, like there ought to be a balcony.

"I don't think we can rightly be called strangers anymore," she says, entirely sincere.

He turns, and the pale winter sunset casts a dull glow over one half of his face. "No," he admits. "I suppose not."

-

She didn't expect to fall asleep so quickly, but then, she'd never been a morning person. Her whole time at uni, she'd routinely opted out of early morning classes and, when that wasn't possible, she'd slept through them entirely. Now, with the promise of winter holidays before her, she was even less adherent to any sort of schedule.

She was out before the plane lifted off.

But her rest didn't last long.

They'd barely reached altitude when the turbulence started. And she probably would've slept through it, truth be told, if the sudden shudder of the plane hadn't deposited the neighboring mobile work station directly into her lap. The first thing she felt, rather than the juddering, weightless feeling of their elevation, were unfamiliar hands where they scrabbled at her lap.

Her fellow passenger muttered an apology, but through her unfocused eyes, she could see the grim set of his mouth. Once again, the world around them seemed to give an unholy shake—and suddenly, his hand wasn't on his laptop, but on _her_ hand, his knuckles white and his grip severe. "Sorry," he muttered again. "Bad flier."

And he looked _pale._ Properly ill. She would've felt more sympathy if she hadn't _just_ been mercilessly yanked out of slumber. Still, she kept her hand still as the plane lurched around them.

"Neither am I," she said cheerfully, pulling his eyes to her face. They were so wide, she could see the whites all the way round. Though the pupils were eating away at the irises, she could tell his eyes were a deep, mossy green. Rose tried to give a little smile. "Left my wings at home."

Overhead, the seatbelt signs came on at about the same moment that her stomach began to dip—the first sign of an impending fall. His hand was like a vise.

"Wings," he said absently. "I bet they'd suit you. Like an angel."

She tried not to take his nonsense too seriously; it was obvious he was terrified, and she was scarcely better off. All her organs, but specifically her heart, seemed up in the air, making their respective desperate bids for her throat. But she swallowed down the panic and used her free hand to check her seatbelt. And his. They were both secure.

"Put your tray up," she said, rather bossily. She was relieved when he obeyed. It would hardly do for him to break his nose on it, or bruise his knees while flailing. Not that she _anticipated_ flailing. He was quite solidly attached to her hand. "I'm gonna set your laptop on the floor—"

And she did so, without removing her hand from his. She was just righting herself when the bottom dropped out of everything, _again._

"Oh God," the man mumbled, his body twitching. "Fuck."

"We're gonna be fine, you know," Rose informed him, trying to sound convincing. Experienced. Even though this was only her second flight _ever_ and, after this, it might well be her last. Her hand was just as tight around his now—a mutual strength-taking. She tried to think of more reassuring things to say and came up empty. "What's your name?"

"Jamie."

"Hi, Jamie. I'm Rose."

"Nice to meet you, Rose," he said, smiling faintly. Pinpricks of sweat dotted his hairline, but she still felt profound relief that there was an emotion beyond the panic. Something left of the sunny, smiling man who had unfolded himself from his seat to make room for her. "You must think I'm q-quite forward," he said, stumbling as the plane gave another shake. "Taking a stranger's hand like this. I promise, normally I'm quite shy."

Rose snorted. "I was thinking more about you getting your hand between my legs."

"Oh, _God,_ " he moaned, and she couldn't quite tell if it was from nausea or embarrassment.

"It _was_ an interesting way to wake up." Teasing, she squeezed his fingers once. "You must think I'm quite the pushover. Under normal circumstances, you'd be getting a slap."

Once again, a flicker of a smile.

"But I'll hold off for a bit."

"Thanks." Jamie exhaled slowly, eyes flickering shut, and his breath warmed her hand. She hadn't become aware of them leaning closer together, their faces nearing, as if they could shut out the discomfort of the flight—the fear and the noise of the pilot's announcements and the muttering of the other passengers. But words still made their way in: _turbulence_ — _seatbelts_ — _no cause for alarm_ — _storm._ That one rattled through them both.

"Jamie," she said, voice low. His eyes snapped open. "We're going to be _fine_."

She wasn't quite sure what glimmered in the murky depths of his eyes—hope, possibly. Layered over with fear. Bravado, attempted and discarded. Trust, perhaps.

She rubbed her thumb over his, and his eyes remained on hers when the plane gave another, more violent shudder, worse than anything that had come before.

He blinked, and something swam to the surface of his gaze. A sense of peace.

"Right," he whispered. "I believe you."

Which was a pity, because that was right about the time the oxygen masks fell.

-

They both take showers—one after another—because even after the most _ideal_ day of flying it would be necessary, and today has been far from ideal. If it had been, they wouldn't be here _now,_ bearing hotel vouchers and identical room keys. They'd probably be safely on different continents, having made their connecting flights.

But they are here.

Rose prepares for bed with her usual carelessness: pulling her hair up into a scrunchy is about as far as she gets with regards to a nightly routine, and she's far too tired for more. She changes into soft, silky pyjamas that are brand new and weren’t meant to be seen by anyone other than the bastard purchaser, but she doesn't feel even the faintest twinge of guilt when Jamie's eyes brush over her.

He wears the same dazed look he'd worn on the plane—when he'd called her an angel.

She feels, in fact, the furthest thing from guilt.

His hair is _really_ floppy now, slick and dark like an oil spill, and his forehead looks even larger like this. Childlike. It makes the set of his near-invisible brows more quizzical, and there's something gently amusing about it. He appears to have donned the same clothes as before—which makes sense. His gadgetry from the plane probably takes up all of the room in his carry-on, and he doesn't seem the sort to deal in practicalities.

For a moment, she dreads the inevitable conversation about who will take the sofa, who will set the alarm. All the little domesticities feel more overwhelming than hours aboard a plane in a storm—insurmountable, almost. The awkwardness swells: a tangible pressure builds in the room.

But none of that comes. He simply sits down on the opposite side of the bed, and grins at her, wry and disarming. "You can give me that smack now, if you like."

Rose grins and shakes her head. "Nah, you get a pass—you were obviously scared out of your senses. But," she adds, imperiously arching one brow, "if I feel those wandering hands during the night, you'll get more than just a smack."

His smile widens, square jaw flexing as he tries and fails to contain it. White teeth, crinkled eyes, and furrowed brow all make an appearance, and Rose finds herself beaming back at him, lit up like a Christmas tree.

As they settle into bed, turning off the lights and rustling beneath the sheets, she feels the silence building back up between them. He wants to say something.

Rose rolls onto her side. "What is it?" she asks, squinting into the darkness.

There's more rustling under the duvet, and the distinct change of his breathing as his face nears hers. "Thank you," he says, nearly whispering. "For… everything. Earlier."

She smiles again, and she knows he can hear it. "Consider me your guardian angel." His huff of laughter fans out over her face, and though they are close in the barely-big-enough bed, she wants to be closer. "I was terrified," she admits.

"You didn't look it."

"That's because I had _you_ to worry about." Her voice, gently teasing, wobbles a bit. "It made it all—I guess, easier."

"Glad I could help," he replies, amused. His voice sounds even closer. And her eyes are adjusting—he _is_ closer. A matter of inches. She uncurls her hand from where it rests under her cheek, and stretches out to touch his hand. It's atop the covers. Long fingers, no longer pale and bloodless: warmed by a shower and a sense of safety.

For a moment, she wishes he would kiss her.

But he's been warned off—she's made sure of that. Which leaves it up to her.

Rose closes the small space between them, her lips searching out his, much like her hands had fumbled around on the plane, attempting to settle the oxygen mask around his nose and mouth. It is unfamiliar, and unnatural, and she is a little afraid—but she does it anyway.

He tastes like the hotel-provided peppermint toothpaste, and she wonders if he'll ever be staying in London. Someday. At the same time she is. Maybe.

For now, this is enough.

A kiss, exchanged between two students who feel like survivors, sharing a hotel room that's only theirs by chance. As his hand tightens around hers—a slow, easy squeeze, from a desire to hold on rather than a fear of letting go—she lets all her leftover panic fade.

Into nothing. Less than nothing. She closes her eyes, and all she feels is peace.


	14. Carolling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: carolling  
> pairing: ten x rose  
> rating: general
> 
> _in which the doctor and rose are confronted by some familiar carollers._

They landed in London, much to Rose’s pleasure, because it was Christmas and the Doctor _always_ brought her home at Christmas.

It was one of those enduringly sentimental things about him that she loved so much. Though the strict progression of linear time was something they’d never _really_ be beholden to, she did appreciate that he made the effort. Sometimes. Usually under threat of a smacking from her mum.

But it didn’t matter.

The point was—

“We’re _home!_ ” Rose cried, and she flung the TARDIS doors open with all the enthusiasm of a very young person who has arrived home after a very long time away, and who has exciting news to share—which she most certainly did.

She was prepared to be greeted with the sight of the estate, and the view from the Doctor’s usual parking spot, which was a little ways off and always surrounded by trash and debris. She expected the noise to have summoned her mum, but to her surprise, Jackie Tyler and her beacon-bright tracksuit were nowhere to be seen.

Instead, Rose was met with an altogether stranger sight: a cluster of people, all holding what appeared to be open books, arranged in a rather threatening way around the door. It wouldn't have been alarming, except they all seemed quite unperturbed by the TARDIS. Like they'd been _waiting_ for it.

“Doctor!” she cried over her shoulder, and the Doctor, attuned to the various tones of panic which Rose Tyler’s voice could convey, came dashing over immediately. In fact, he moved so quickly that he barely had time to careen to a stop, his body bumping against hers in a way that would have pushed her flat out of the TARDIS, had she not been bracing herself with a hand on either side of the doorway.

Still, he demanded, "What is it?"

Rose gestured to their audience.

“Oh,” the Doctor said, blinking rapidly. He looked dazed, and seemed like he was going to be of no help whatsoever. “Hello.”

“Can we… help you?” Rose asked, striving to sound polite rather than alarmed.

In lieu of answering, all of the assembled exchanged glances—knowing, quiet smiles, as if they were in on a very good secret. And then they gave a loud cry— _Merry Christmas!_ —before launching into a rousing rendition of _Auld Lang Syne._

The force of which, apparently, was so strong that it knocked the Doctor out cold.

-

Jackie Tyler hadn’t gone looking to join any kind of Mad Alien Fan Club.

In truth, she'd intended to stay as far _away_ as she could from reminders of the dangerous, adventurous life her daughter was off living—without her, mind—and the rude, man-shaped creature who had instigated it all. But after Elton—and LINDA—and the _devastating_ reminder that Rose may have been out among the stars, but the consequences of her travels could make their way back to Earth...

Well, she’d just about changed her mind. She couldn’t spend the rest of her life with it all buttoned up, mouth brimming with secrets, never telling anyone what it was _really_ like.

To be the parent of an extraordinary child. To be left behind. To have seen impossible things.

So, Jackie had gone looking for _something_ —if not answers, than someone who might, at least, understand. She wanted to feel less alone.

Using a bit of light blackmail and, subsequently, Mickey’s internet connection, she’d done her best to track down a few local groups: people who hadn’t forgotten the alien ship crashing into the clock tower, or who made claims about knowing the Doctor, or who generally seemed like the sorts of people who would take her seriously when she said the word “Slitheen.” Just people she could talk to. Not a fan club, or a conspiracy group—just _people._

She told herself she would do her research, pay attention—that she wouldn’t just launch into stories about the Doctor and Rose straight away. She would protect their secret, _and_ she wouldn't be alone.

She did what all Tyler women did: she got to work.

After weeks of unknowingly retracing her daughter’s steps from more than a year prior—after all her internet searches and sceptical investigations—after meeting people who were cracked, or lying, or the right sort of people but _painfully_ boring—she went to Mickey in dismay.

"There's no one I can talk to," she cried.

But Mickey just grinned, giving the impression that he’d just been _waiting_ for the opportunity to speak. He jumped out of his chair and insisted, "Yeah, there is."

And that was the beginning of it all.

-

The Doctor’s collapse seemed to inspire mixed reactions among the carollers; there was a bit of laughter, but also a fair amount of concern.

Front and center, a serious-looking, auburn-haired woman tilted her head and stepped forward, brushing past a slack-jawed Rose to tend to the unconscious Doctor. She gave a cursory glance to the timeship, barely reacting to its unique, bigger-on-the-inside properties, before reaching for the Doctor’s neck, as if to take his pulse. And then her hand shifted to the other side of his neck—knowing, it seemed, that he would have two pulses. Her unflappability reminded Rose, rather oddly, of her secondary school science teacher.

Another woman—bottle blonde, with heavy bangs and clacking wood bracelets on her wrist—gave a wide lipped smile. “Well, I don’t believe any of us predicted _that,_ ” she said, with a rasping laugh. “You must be Rose. Jackie’s told us all about you.”

Rose, to her credit, tried to offer some semblance of a smile—but it was all too confusing. How did her mum’s friends know about the TARDIS? And who _were_ they? Why were they all gathered like this?

The woman, who looked about her mother’s age but lacked any sort of parental quality, seemed to take pity on her. “We’ll explain things, Rose, I promise… in a little. But—how could I forget! I’m Jo Grant-Jones, but Jo’s the important bit. That’s Dr. Liz Shaw, there. She’ll have the Doctor up on his feet in no time. And that’s Harry Sullivan,” she added, gesturing off to the side to a man in uniform, “and over there is Dorothy McSh—”

“Don’t you dare, Josephine.”

Jo, however, seemed to find the other woman's irritation greatly funny.

“—well, you’d better call her Ace," she finished politely. "And—and there are others, but we’ll have time for the rest of the introductions later! Though, I believe,” she said grandly, stepping aside a little, “you’re already familiar with—”

“ _Sarah Jane!_ ” Rose cried, all but leaping out of the TARDIS. She flew forward, skidding through the small group, into the spread arms of Sarah Jane Smith.

She couldn’t explain the feeling she had, welling up inside her—the warmth, the _joy_ , that made her bury her head into the older woman’s shoulder. She felt her eyes filling with tears, suddenly surrounded by the deep sense that she was safe, that everyone here was _family._ As she breathed in the soft smell of Sarah Jane’s perfume, and heard the tittering of laughter from the others at her back, she thought she’d never been so glad to be home in her life.

She lifted her head slowly, not wanting the moment of unbelievable peace to end. But then her eyes blinked open, and she was met with an even more familiar face.

_Two_ familiar faces.

"And where's _my_ hug?" Mickey demanded, arms already spreading.

"You'll have to wait your turn!" Jackie insisted, her mouth twisted in a petulant frown while her eyes sparkled with good humor. "She's my daughter, after all."

With a gentle push from Sarah Jane, Rose was running again, falling into their arms like a comet out of the sky. It had been _ages_ since she'd last seen their wonderful human faces, and she wondered how it was that the Doctor always knew just _precisely_ when she was starting to get homesick. She wondered if they'd missed her as much as she'd missed them.

"Oh, Mum—" she started to sigh.

Behind her, the kerfuffle seemed to indicate that the Doctor was conscious—and upright, but rather speechless, based on the fact that his mouth wasn't already running. In absence of any conversational efforts, Rose could make out someone mumbling, "one, two, three, and—"

The carolling recommenced.

-

A few weeks before Christmas, at one of their usual dinners, Jackie had put a question to the table: _What did one get an alien who already had everything, and a time machine to boot?_

The faces all around had been thoughtful. There were joking suggestions—"a diary, to keep track of his appointments," and "a swift kick in the arse" were prominent among them. Jackie herself had joined in, saying that she didn't _really_ have any reason to get the daft man _anything,_ since he refused to consent to becoming her son-in-law.

But, as the wine flowed and the gentle scrape of flatware filled the silence, it occurred to all of them that they really _couldn't_ think of anything. The Doctor—the alien who had unknowingly bound their little group together—had, as Jackie said, the entire universe at his feet. The usual holiday gifts seemed a bit extraneous at that point.

As usual, it was Sarah Jane who came up with the idea.

The only sensible answer, she informed them, was a reunion with—as she put it— _auld acquaintance._

-

Jackie's arms remained around Rose for the entire duration of _Auld Lang Syne_ , so tight and with eyes so blurred with tears that she didn't even see the band around her daughter's finger.

In fact, she didn't find Rose's news out until much later, when the Doctor and his companions were all assembled around her dinner table. But it was safe to say that she felt very glad she'd decided to give him a gift—he _was_ going to be her son-in-law, after all.


	15. Ring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: ring  
> pairing: doctor x rose  
> rating: general
> 
> _in which the doctor gives rose five golden rings—of a sort._

“There,” he pronounces, squeezing her fingers. “Perfect.” 

The ring on her thumb is a thin band of gold, delicate and fragile-looking under the harsh, red sun. The metal seems to reflect the desolate desert—to capture the heat of it, making the ring feel warm against her skin. 

She wonders if that’s the stored power inside of it, or the workings of her own mind. It’s been a long day—a long _several_ days, really—and she is exhausted, so she could be forgiven for not knowing. After being sent on what she’d suspected was a fool’s errand, in search of a legendary ring of supposed ancient power, to be given to a princess for an engagement present—after going with little food or water, sleeping with her face exposed to the stars and her body exposed to the shockingly cold nights—and then after _finding_ the bloody thing, only to find it quite difficult to extract—

She thinks she could be forgiven most things at this point.

The Doctor is still looking at her hand, inordinately pleased. “No safer place,” he says. His grin is as wide and crooked as ever, and he hardly looks wearied for all their days of walking. Maybe a bit tan, but it suits him. His teeth are white against his lips, eyes shining like precious stones. “Don’t lose that. The king’ll have your head.” And, like it’s an afterthought: “Suits you.”

And then he drops her hand from his. 

Immediately, the sensation of warmth fades.

Rose twists the band on her finger and the gold shines. It’s pretty, really—something she would’ve loved to wear, under different circumstances. But now, she feels like a pack mule, bearing the spoils of the Doctor’s journey. Wearing a ring meant for somebody else. It feels perverse, somehow, and she has to purse her lips to keep back the words she wants to say.

His back is already to her, broad and tall; she has no idea how he’s survived this long in this heat with that absurd leather jacket.

But it’s no matter. Anything he can do, she can do—if a little slower. She brings her thumb to her mouth and nibbles the nail, brushing the metal against her chin as they walk back in the direction from which they came.

-

“With this ring,” he teases, “I thee bio-damp.”

Rose blushes, even though she _knows_ there’s nothing to his words—only empty teasing. He’s so full of that these days. She thinks that nearly losing her might’ve changed something this time, between them. Made something… perhaps not awkward, but careful. Like he’s maintaining a distance that she can’t cross, no matter how hard she tries.

Rose shivers.

When he drapes his suit coat over her shoulders, giving her a knowing sort of look, she thanks him earnestly and snuggles into the warm fabric. Breathing deep, she lets the familiar scents comfort her: tea with too much honey; something that makes her nose itch, like the dust off of a book in an old library; something low and salty and almost-human. Home. That’s what he smells like. Even the brisk December wind can’t carry it away.

She exhales.

And then, she tries not to wince when she sees the bride—that is, Donna—step out of the TARDIS, the Doctor's trench wrapped around her like a shawl. And she’s also wearing a golden ring, quite similar to hers. She wonders if Donna got the same joke.

_Probably so,_ she thinks miserably. _After all,_ she’s _the bride._

-

Standing in the old vault—watching the shadows jump and skitter over the damp stone walls, shifting in time with the flicker of their small candle—Rose feels a shiver ripple through her. Dread sinks her stomach like a lead weight. She doesn’t like the planets like this: all darkness and threats of doom. They give her an odd feeling.

Like she’s cheated death one time too many, and now it’s nipping at her heels. Coming for her.

“Rose?”

When she looks up, the Doctor’s face looks strange in the dimness. His forehead too prominent, his eyes too recessed. But it’s still him, and so, when he reaches out his hand, she takes it unquestioningly.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared!” He teases her affectionately, squeezing her fingers in his. She can feel the ring on her finger shift under his knobby joints. His grasp is firm and familiar, and she feels inexplicably safe. Like she sometimes does when he’s close and touching her in just a certain way.

She’s always tried not to give the feeling a name, but here in the dark, it's such a sharp relief from the dread that she nearly says it outright. 

He’s already talking again—on a tear, as usual—and that, too, is a relief. “There’s no need to be, of course. That thing’s rendered you basically unseeable. Perception filters—brilliant bit of tech, you know. My lot weren’t terribly private—telepathy’ll do that to a species—but… when they wanted to be invisible, by _God,_ they made sure of it.”

His soothing babble carries them deeper and deeper, the steep ceiling descending in an almost tangible way. Crowding around them, making his voice feel close. Another tingle of unease slithers over her skin.

“ _Rose,_ ” he says again, catching her attention again. His voice is unnaturally serious. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I _promise._ ”

His thumb brushes over the metal of her ring—her _perception filter_ —and she believes him.

"I know." 

-

She decides to ask him about the ring on his finger. The one he always wears, even under gloves or while he’s washing the dishes—which she is still slightly amazed that he does. By hand. Even on the TARDIS. Though, right now, they _aren’t_ on the TARDIS; they’re in her mum’s kitchen, and he’s cleaning up after supper. A _family_ supper. One he’d attended, _voluntarily._

Wonders never cease.

But he spends most of his time tidying when they visit her mum. This body’s a bit of a neat freak; everything in its place. Including that ring.

He hadn’t regenerated with it on. It had to have come some time after. Had he found it on one of their trips? Or had he always had it, sitting in the back of some drawer somewhere, forgotten until now? And, more importantly, _why_ did he wear it? What did it _mean?_

“Where did you get your ring?” she asks. It seems like an innocent enough opener, but he just gives her that mysterious little half-smile that he has. It makes him look younger than his face—younger than she knows him to be. He feels that way sometimes, these days. Like he’s aging in reverse: getting younger and lighter and brighter, even though his hair is iron gray and his eyebrows severe. She likes it—likes the way joy looks on him.

His hand disappears beneath the soap bubbles, moving in a circular motion as he scrubs. The gold glint of the ring goes with it. But Rose’s curiosity doesn’t abate. Instead, it lingers at the surface of everything, for a very, very long time.

-

When she brings the Doctor home for Christmas the next year, everything is different.

And nothing is different.

They hold hands as they step out of the TARDIS and into the street, not because either of them is nervous, but because they _aren’t._ Everything is so clear—had become so in barely a matter of seconds.

Because she almost hadn’t survived this time. The Doctor’s regeneration had come out of thin air, unexpected and unwanted, riding on the back of a genetically-modified virus aimed specifically at Time Lords. It was meant to run them through all their regenerations rapidly, like pressing fast-forward on a film. And it almost had.

Only the Doctor and Rose had stopped it. Barely.

And when the Doctor had woken, her new eyes a warm hazel and focused entirely on Rose—“Are _you_ all right? Are you hurt? Rose, what’s wrong? _Rose?_ ”—it had occurred to both of them that they just couldn’t pretend anymore. They couldn’t do it, and what’s more, they didn’t _want_ to.

Rose had cried, and yelled, and cried a bit more.

At some point, the golden ring had slipped off of the Doctor’s finger and into one of her new pockets. Rose had never got up the courage to ask.

-

Jackie’s flat is all warmth and noise and bustle, and the Doctor and Rose melt into it gratefully. 

Her mum has questions, naturally, and observations to make, but she is about as welcoming as she’s ever been. She hugs the Doctor no less tightly, and Rose feels a flush of appreciation for the woman who raised her. That, with few exceptions, she’s always accepted what the Doctor is to her.

That night, they sleep together in Rose’s old bed. It’s too narrow to properly accommodate the both of them, but they’ve had tighter fits. And anyway, they’ve decided not to be apart—ever again, if they can help it.

It’s while they’re lying there—back to chest, under the blasé watch of boy band posters—that the Doctor finally slips the golden band into Rose’s open palm. Immediately, she recognizes its weight and warmth as distantly familiar. “Rose,” the Doctor says softly, her words brushing over the fine hairs on Rose’s neck, “I’ve always wanted you to have this. Ever since I got it—well, ever since you wore it. Had to resize it a bit, of course.”

But Rose isn’t following. Perhaps because the proximity of the Doctor is still distracting, or for some other equally embarrassing reason. She tries not to wriggle in the Doctor’s arms. And she can’t place the band with any certainty. Only, she knows she _has_ worn it before. “What? When did I...” she murmurs, turning over to look the Doctor in the face.

She’s smiling, almost sheepish.

“I thought it suited you.”

It dawns on her, like a desert sunrise.

“Rose Tyler,” the Doctor says, and it’s evident that she’s trying to look solemn, but she isn’t quite succeeding. “I have been an idiot for a very long time, but I love you. I always have. Will you marry me and wear this ring—for all of our lives?”

The word “yes” sticks in Rose’s throat, which is too dry to let her speak. She answers with a kiss instead, tentative and perfect. And when the ring slides onto her finger and she curls her hand into the Doctor’s hair, Rose knows that this—what they’re doing, what they’re committing to—will change everything. Forever.

And she's ready for it.


	16. North Pole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: north pole  
> pairing: thirteen x rose  
> rating: general
> 
> _in which christmas day comes to visit the tardis and its many occupants._

At approximately half-past six on Christmas Day, relative time, the Doctor and Rose’s bedroom was invaded by a small army. The weapons of choice in this particular battle were knobbly knees and jabby little elbows, which writhed thoughtlessly atop the coverlet, and voices that were _far_ too loud for such an early hour.

“Mums! Wake up, Mums!” The primary cries followed this pattern. “Get up, Mums, wake up, _wake up,_ ” followed by more specific entreaties: “Mum! Mummy, stop hiding your face, we _know_ you’re awake!”

At a slightly lower, less confident volume, came additional voices, saying, “Aunt Rose, you _did_ say to get you up—” and “D’you think the Doctor’s dead? She hasn’t moved a _bit_.”

But the Doctor was _not_ dead, and after a few moments of attempted stoicism, a particular jab to her ticklish inner ribs forced her lips to curl, though her eyes stayed closed. This small victory on the part of the aggressors prompted such a cry of triumph from the assembled horde that Rose—who was still determinedly hiding her face in the down plush of her pillow—gave a groan of defeat. “All right,” she sighed, rolling over to face the day—and the children. “We’re awake. What’s the fuss?”

She could’ve laughed at the range of expressions on the assembled faces—dismay and contempt, worry and distress, regret and hope. But her ploy wasn’t fooling everyone. “ _Mummy,_ ” scolded the boldest of the group—a waifish girl with wide eyes and white-blonde hair. She looked back and forth between the two newly-risen adults, irritated. “It’s _Christmas morning._ ”

“No morning on the TARDIS, Jenny,” the Doctor chimed, her eyes flicking open. But her smile was sly, and that did not escape the children’s notice.

A hiss of excitement went around the bed, followed by another voice. “You _always_ say that,” the young boy grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest, “and you’re _always_ wrong.” Little James stuck out his full bottom lip in a rather tragical pout, and Rose felt a small tug beneath her ribs at the sight. He had the same sticky-uppy hair as his father, too, and the gob to match.

Sometimes, looking at her children made her feel strange—as if her heart lived outside of her body. As if she had more than one, like any Time Lord.

She smiled. “You’re right. Mum does say that a lot, and she doesn’t mean it.” Her concession had the desired effect: the small boy uncrossed his arms and clambered into her open ones, curling up on her lap immediately. “Happy Christmas, sweetheart. Happy Christmas, everyone.” She looked around at the children with amusement. All were in wrinkled pyjamas, hair still mussed with sleep. “Did you all sleep well?”

Mickey and Martha’s twins, August and Ava—both of whom had significantly better manners than their older, TARDIS-faring “cousins”—bobbed their heads politely. Though, the rather haggard looks on their young faces were a testament to the contrary.

Amelia was the one to answer aloud, however, sporting a wicked grin under her untidy mop of red hair. “We hardly slept at all! Jenny said that we should watch the hearth for invaders—she said there’s _always_ trouble at Christmastime.”

_Of course,_ Rose thought to herself in amusement. Amelia had only been with them for a few months, and she seemed to take Jenny’s word as universal, unquestionable truth.

Which wouldn’t have been a problem, if their oldest daughter hadn’t usually been right. She was too smart by half.

“I didn’t know the TARDIS had a chimney,” the Doctor said, and quite calmly, too, considering her relationship with the TARDIS. If _she_ didn’t know about a chimney, there was a good chance there wasn’t one onboard.

_Probably._

Actually, Rose reconsidered, the Doctor’s knowledge of the infinite timeship amounted to just about nothing. And, as she knew, Jenny was usually right. She arched her brow, waiting for their daughter to enlighten them.

“Well,” the girl said, suddenly sheepish and looking _uncommonly_ like her father once had, “she didn’t. At first. I asked for one.”

_Of course._

The Doctor and Rose exchanged a look, and then burst into laughter.

-

Despite the younger contingent’s vigorous start to the morning, the adults—including Martha and Mickey, who were both the most _unbearably_ chipper morning people, and Jack and Ianto, who had a suspicious glow to them—ended up having to all but herd the horde of children out of the ship. So caught up were they in talking about what they'd find when they stepped out, they could hardly be organized and subsequently unleashed.

It was a mess of misplaced scarves and mis-buttoned coats, and more than one head had to be forcibly tucked into a hat that probably didn’t belong to them but would do in a pinch.

As they stepped out of the TARDIS, Rose smiled to herself, thinking of a time when she probably would’ve wandered out the door without so much as a coat, unthinking and uncaring of the cold. In those days, all that had mattered was her craving for adventure—and the Doctor's hand in hers. She was lost in memory as the object of her thoughts waxed rhapsodic about their current location, the North Pole, and its many charms and curiosities, to the children, who were an eager—if squirming—audience.

Jenny, of course, was keen to determine whether or not there was an actual _pole_ at the so-called North Pole, and promptly began digging through the powdery snow, which James found quite ridiculous. He was a natural born sceptic, which the rest of the TARDIS crowd found endlessly hilarious—a complete contrast to his sisters, who seemed to view the whole universe with wide-eyed wonder. Rose saw so much of herself in them.

August and Ava, unlike the other children, seemed to be walking forward with hesitant steps. They'd only been on the TARDIS a few times before, and though their trust extended to a certain point, it did not seem to extend out onto the ice. Once they’d been informed that the ground beneath their feet was not, in fact, ground, but a solid sheet of ice floating atop a frigid ocean, their faces had tightened with fear.

It took Mickey five entire minutes to convince his small son to venture out with the others. But Ava seemed to summon her bravery on her own and, with a determined look on her face, walked carefully out to where Jenny and Amelia played, chased by Uncle Jack and Uncle Ianto.

Rose watched the scene with an indescribable fondness. Mickey was a great dad, to her way of thinking, and she could never seem to overcome her amazement that the both of them were parents, or that Jack had taken so well to being an honorary Uncle. What's more, she was endlessly astounded that they all—and she herself, in particular—had gotten to keep _both_ parts of their life intact: the magical unreality of traveling through the stars _and_ the everyday domestics that made it all the sweeter. Weddings and wars, saving planets and saving dates in her calendar. A delicate balance, hinging upon the grace of the cosmos and the will of her Time Lord.

There had been a time, she reflected, when this life would've seemed impossible.

But it was more than possible. It was, in hindsight, oddly inevitable.

The Doctor had too much knowledge stored up inside that brain—too much love to give—too much loneliness to battle—to have been content without a family. She was always building them from nothing, wherever she went: factory workers and revolutionary fighters became her brothers; cat nuns, her sisters; and ancient creatures of all kinds joined their odd, ever-growing family. It had only been a matter of time before all that potential energy exploded outward, changing the course of Rose's entire future.

She watched the Doctor hunch down beside August, taking his smaller hand in her own as she pointed out something on the horizon. When she smiled at him, the corners of the Time Lord’s eyes scrunched up, as did the middle of her nose: a familiar expression of delight and interest. She looked up at Rose—barely even a glance—and the look stretched into another kind of smile. It was the kind that, Rose knew, belonged to her. She felt butterflies take wing inside her, and smiled back.

The ripples of that explosion were still moving, ever outward.

She pressed her hand to her stomach, and wondered.

-

The children—and Jack, of course—played on the fragile cap of her homeworld until Rose deemed it too cold and began rounding them up to tromp back into the TARDIS. Martha had long been stomping her boots to keep her toes warm, and even the Doctor seemed a bit wind-burnt about the cheeks, so Rose didn't feel even the tiniest bit badly. Not even when Amelia pouted about not being able to take any of the snow home with them.

"There won't be any in London," she griped. "There never is. Just _sludge_."

"No," Rose agreed. "No snow. But your Nan is there, and a nice Christmas dinner."

The girl's whole face lit up. This had been the first explicit reference to Jackie being _her Nan,_ too, and Rose wanted to hold the little girl tight until she understood.

Family was what you kept close. It was who you traveled with, and who you met and protected. It was an alien who could change their face, and a mostly-human shopgirl who loved them. Family was Amelia herself, and Jenny, and James, and August and Ava, and Jack and Ianto, and Martha and Mickey, and Nan, and the TARDIS, and the little flicker of life that Rose hoped would be a new addition to their crew.

It was always growing, always changing.

"C'mon, sweetheart," Rose said, wrapping one arm around each of her girls. The Doctor wasn’t far behind, toting August on her hip. "Let's go home for Christmas."

And all together, they made for the TARDIS.


	17. Mittens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: mittens  
> pairing: ten x rose  
> rating: general
> 
> _in which the doctor and rose go on their honeymoon._

Their idea for a honeymoon had been deceptively simple.

The agreement was that they would go on something of a world tour. Rose had already seen so much of the surrounding universe—or, so she thought, though the Doctor knew better—and she wanted to explore her own home planet a little. A series of short-distance TARDIS hops, constrained to the present day and one tiny little planet. She'd seemed so set on the idea that he hadn’t wanted to argue. Something about their nuptials, she declared, ought to be traditional.

In fact, he'd had to talk her out of taking planes to get around. That, they _did_ disagree over. She’d called it a “real human experience.” He’d called it “a monumental bloody waste of fossil fuels,” which had pretty much ended the almost-argument.

And neither of them could really afford airfare, anyway. Running around saving the universe didn't exactly line one's pockets, he teased. They would just have to take the TARDIS and hope she didn't get them into any trouble.

He took issue with Rose’s dubious expression. But she’d agreed, in the end, and he’d swept her off to their first destination.

When the ship's doors opened to a windy beach and a pale, roaring ocean, Rose was enchanted—and a little suspicious, perhaps understandably. He didn't have the best track record with arriving at intended destinations. Not that he’d _told_ her where he intended them to go.

But of course, she was Rose: the wonder won out. "The sand!" she cried, stepping out onto the beach with a soft tread. "It's black!"

And it was. Studded with shiny black pebbles, the beach stretched out before them in a long, dark strip, broken only by the sight of craggy mountains and stone formations in the distance, shrouded in mist. The sun was low and dim on the horizon. The place seemed mythical, almost. But he knew it wasn't.

"Where are we?" she asked, turning back to him. Her expression was radiant with awe, like she couldn’t believe they were still on Earth. The wind whipped her hair, lashing it mercilessly against her cheeks, which were already going pink with cold. Behind her, the waves crept insistently over the shoreline, white fingers reaching for her.

"Iceland," the Doctor announced confidently. "Earth. The sand is black because of all the volcanic ash.” And then, apropos of nothing: “Told you I could manage it.”

Rose narrowed her eyes, but she was smiling. "Almost. Looks like you skipped us forward a little." Now, _that_ was nit-picking. But she didn’t seem truly bothered. She was too enamoured with the landscape.

Her gaze turned out toward the horizon line, which was smudgy and indistinct. Night was falling fast, the pale sky being swallowed by coming darkness, and Rose seemed to be taking everything in as quickly as she could. Her eyes darted all around, unable to settle.

He stepped out behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist to shield her from the wind. She was wearing a coat, but it was December in Iceland—he knew she’d be getting chilly soon, and he didn’t want her to miss a moment to the shivering cold.

Tucking his chin atop her head, he replied, "Actually, we didn't move forward at all.” Or, they had, but only by about half a minute. But he didn’t say _that._ “It's the winter solstice—shorter days, longer nights.” He leaned down to whisper into her ear. “Northern lights.”

“Really?” Her voice alight with wonderment, she tried to turn her head and look back at him, her hair billowing around their faces. “We’ll be able to see them?”

“Mhm,” he nodded warmly. “Now, let’s get you back inside for a minute. It’s only going to get colder, and I want all your fingers left intact.” One hand slid down the length of her arm to hold hers; the chill of her fingers melted away in his relatively warm grasp—one benefit to his ability to self-regulate that sort of thing—and he pulled the digits up close to his mouth to breathe on them. The warmth of his breath puffed in a light cloud over her hand. “Especially this one,” he whispered, dropping a kiss on the cold metal of her wedding band.

“Don’t you fuss. I’m plenty warm enough.” She giggled when he pressed another insistent kiss against that very particular finger. “We should get mittens—nice ones, you know? Made of some real Icelandic wool.”

“But all the shops are closed,” the Doctor objected.

The sun was all but gone now, Rose’s bright smile and the golden glow pouring out of the TARDIS the only sources of light. “Tomorrow, then.” She flexed her fingers against his lips and wiggled further into his hold, banding his other arm around her like a corset. He felt the shifting of her ribs as she inhaled and exhaled deeply, and he felt something like awe—that he was here, now, holding her like this.

His voice came out with a tremor. “And tonight?”

“I suppose you’ll just have to hold my hand,” was her reply. Obediently, his fingers tightened around hers—both hands tangled without hope of escape—unwilling to let go for even a moment. It was a strange, fragile sort of knowledge: that he’d never have to let go again. Not if he didn’t want to.

She’d _chosen_ his hand to hold, forever.

He nodded, and her hair was like silk against his cheek. “I can do that.”

He could, and did—his hand never left hers as they lay out on the beach, both atop and underneath a mountain of blankets, and watched the stars shift overhead. Their clear, pale brilliance shone even through all Earth’s atmosphere, coming from a great distance to twinkle joyfully at the newlyweds.

Finally, when the night was deep and dark, the northern lights came as well. The auroras danced overhead, setting the watchers’ face alight with shifting color. Rose was awestruck, her hair a crown of magical, ever-changing hues, reflecting the lights just like the sea did. The Doctor watched—her, and the lights, and then her again—and thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful.

And then, in the morning, the Doctor acquiesced to Rose’s request: he got her a pair of the warmest, fuzziest, most authentic Icelandic wool mittens they could find, to protect her precious fingers. When Rose smiled in glee, her tongue poking out from between her teeth—

He thought the northern lights had been nothing at all, compared to her.


	18. Presents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: presents  
> pairing: twelve x rose  
> rating: teen
> 
> _in which rose helps a customer pick out a gift—for another woman._

She likes to think that she works retail jobs like this because she's good at it—good with people. Heaven knows, she's had years to practice. So, when he steps into the bookshop, shaking the fast-melting snow from his hair, she's prepared for an interaction like any other: she greets him with a smile, and then she leaves him alone to wander the shelves. 

Most people prefer that—to pick their way through the ramshackle shelves on their own, fingers leaving trails of shifted dust, searching for buried treasure among the secondhand books. Occasionally, she can help someone find something, if they’re highly specific and she’s done inventory recently. Very, _very_ rarely, she has to get out the old key to the glass cabinet, where they store the _really_ old volumes—the ones that would crumble if subjected to the easy, everyday touch of customers.

Those are her favorite customers. The reverence in their eyes, the quiet contemplation as they delicately open the covers, the jubilation when they find exactly what they were looking for—it reminds her of all the various reasons why she loves her job. Books are special to people in a way that so many other things _aren’t._ And old books, perhaps, are the most special of all.

But _this_ man makes the winding circuit through the shop faster than customers usually do. He doesn’t seem to give any of the shelves more than a cursory glance and she wonders if he’s looking for something specific—something that he expects to stick out, maybe with a glowing neon sign for good measure. On his second loop, she wonders if she might offer some assistance.

Rose chews on her lip for an indecisive moment before softly calling, “Are you looking for something in particular?”

When he looks up, his eyes are wide and startled; it’s clear she’s interrupted deep contemplation, for all it had looked like the opposite. In fact, it seems as if he’d entirely forgotten her presence until this moment. And then he blinks, pale eyelashes fluttering rapidly, another expression overtaking his face. “I am.” He clears his throat. “ _Shakespeare’s Sonnets._ ” He looks almost embarrassed by his answer, and Rose does her best to suppress her smile. 

“I’m sure we have a few of those hanging around,” she says confidently, heading straight for the poorly-labeled poetry section toward the back of the store. It isn’t frequented very often—in this part of town, most people are here for academic texts of a heavier sort, rather than romantic poetry. To sate her curiosity—and to fill the silence—she says, “Shopping for Christmas presents, then?” It's presumptuous, she realizes immediately upon asking. Maybe he doesn't celebrate Christmas at all.

The man is behind her, so she can’t see his face, but his substantial pause speaks to hesitation. “Of a sort,” he finally answers. And then he adds nothing further, and her mortification grows—so she stays quiet.

Or, she thinks she stays quiet.

As a child, she’d been a dreadful reader. In class, she could never retain anything taught in a book, and at home, she’d never had the patience to read for pleasure. She can recall the frustration of it even now—of sitting there, swinging her feet beneath her desk, with the words going jumbled on the page. Her teachers had called her inattentive, and maybe it was true, but she was also agonized by her own inability to enjoy reading. 

She was ten years old when the first Harry Potter book came out, and she was the only one of her friends unable to finish it. Not even the enticing world of magic had been able to keep her attention—her mind had wandered off the page and down other avenues, unless she took care to focus. And when she did, it hardly mattered; she was so busy concentrating on linking one word to the next that she hardly knew what the book was about.

It wasn’t until a few grades later, when she’d gotten a new teacher, that things started to change. Mrs. Wright, an even-tempered and patient sort of woman, had suggested that Rose read aloud to herself—even standing up and walking around while she did it. Or giving a performance, like a play. Doing voices and characters, acting out the scene instead of confining it to her own head. She thought it might keep Rose from getting distracted.

And it _had._ It had helped infinitely, allowing her to make sense of the syllables as she spoke them, and turning young Rose into a ravenous reader. It was a passion that outlasted many others, and had even guided her to this particular bookshop. 

Now, she can't seem to get enough of reading. Many hours have passed with her sitting idly in the shop, propped against the counter, whispering aloud from whatever book she's happened to pick up.

So, it takes her a few seconds to realize that she’s murmuring again now, from the very book she's seeking: “ _When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, and dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field, thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now, will be a tatter’d weed, of small worth held: then being ask’d where all thy beauty lies, where all the treasure of thy lust_ —”

She catches herself just in time—or perhaps too late—and snaps her mouth shut immediately, glancing over her shoulder to see if she's been caught. Is he spooked by her incessant whispering? And why had she taken up muttering _that_ poem?

It's obvious he's heard her. His eyebrows, so heavy and foreboding, seem to have crawled up his face during the course of her recitation, and she feels herself start to flush in response. _Shit._

He _is_ a fair bit older than she is, but she can’t imagine him bringing to mind anything so critical as “ _a tatter’d weed, of small worth held._ ” He’s—she has to admit—good-looking, with that chaotic hair and those expressive eyes. And he’s dressed rather impeccably, in a scholarly sort of way; she can’t help noticing these things, just like she can’t help noticing that the shelves are narrower here, and he’s close behind her, and it suddenly feels like they've been wandering among the books for hours.

“Sorry,” she mutters, averting her eyes as she nearly trips over the carpet. "Woolgathering."

“No, by all means,” he insists, “go on.” She’s not sure if he means it or not, though, so she resolves to hold her tongue.

But there’s no need to go on—after what feels like a living age, they’ve meandered their way to the proper shelves, and her eyes begin to scan them in search of a familiar spine. There are probably a dozen editions of _Shakespeare’s Sonnets_ sitting around on these shelves, but he hardly seems like the sort to give a paperback as a Christmas present.

She stands on the tips of her toes, bracing against a shelf, as she looks for a copy amongst the battered books laying all akimbo. _Where is it?_ She wonders, and mumbles, and tries to look a little higher.

" _—be, as thy presence is,_ " she sighs thoughtlessly, " _gracious and kind, or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove: make thee another self, for love of me, that beauty still may live in thine or thee._ "

"That's a different one," the man's voice intrudes.

"Hm?"

"You're skipping all 'round." He sounds amused. "That's number ten."

"I know," she answers, frowning over her shoulder. "I'm sorry, I'm having trouble finding a copy back here—I know we have several."

"I can't imagine it's easy to find anything in here," he comments, lips tilting wryly.

"There's a system." She knows she sounds defensive, and is mildly horrified. She's never really been rude to a customer before; then again, she's never started mumbling sonnets at them before, either. Today seems to be a day for new experiences. "Mostly. Sometimes things get… shifted in the shuffle."

His look of amusement does not fade. "Naturally."

Chewing on her lip, she gives up on the search. "We have a second edition, of course, up front—from 1905, but it's terribly worn. Would you be interested in looking at it?"

"Looking at it, certainly," he replies, gesturing for her to lead the way. "Buying it, however—no. She's not exactly the sort of girl you give second editions to, my Bill." Rose, unable to face the look of fondness on the man's face, immediately starts toward the front of the shop again. "Brilliant,” he continues, sounding quite emphatic, “but a bit careless.”

"Pity," Rose replies. The trip to the front seems to take less time than going back—perhaps it's the determination to put distance between her and the man. Which is odd, and a bit mental, and she _knows_ it. But it can't be helped either. She has an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach, and it's the attempt to overcome it that makes her speak again. "This particular book's been sitting on the shelf a long time. It ought to be with someone who—who will handle it kindly." _God,_ she sounds strange. Rose needs to _stop talking_.

The man doesn't respond, and she doesn't look back to see why. Instead, she rounds the desk to retrieve the key to the case, and then reaches over to unlock it, keeping herself—and the book—safely behind the counter.

Carefully, with tender hands and slow movements, she withdraws the book from its place, nestled among other old, fragile volumes. The cover is worn by age, and it takes everything in her not to brush her hand over it—to take in the feel of the embossed letters. She's never had the chance to pull this one out and examine it. But she refuses to add any unnecessary wear.

The man looks at the book with something like a glint in his eye. Real, genuine interest. And, rather reluctantly, Rose relinquishes the more than hundred-year-old book of sonnets.

She doesn't realize it's a test when she extends the book with both hands—and she only realizes he's passed it when he takes the cover into his hands, and she sees what she was looking for, right there on his face: reverence, and no small amount of wonder. He touches the cover with the very tips of his fingers, and looks to her before he opens it, as if waiting for permission.

A grin splits her cheeks, despite herself. She appreciates the sign of respect. "Go ahead," she says. She knows he won't mistreat it, or crack the spine unnecessarily. Still, her eyes don't leave him for a second, and she feels how she imagines a mother would, watching someone else hold her child.

It's plain that the man has no words—though she suspects he's a man of few, anyway. His eyes caress the pages as he carefully flips through, the scent of dust and paper and old, bitter ink rising in the air. It's like a perfume, and Rose breathes deep, smiling when the man does the same.

It is a very long time before he speaks again, low and smooth: " _Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove: oh, no, it is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken…_ " 

When he looks up, Rose isn't sure what sort of expression she's wearing. Perhaps one of shock—it seems likely, because the man's rather stiff face cracks into a half-smile. It might as well be beatific joy, for all it changes his expression. His eyes sparkle, and she wonders how on earth she's supposed to _cope._

"I'll take it," he says.

" _What?_ " Rose asks, disbelieving. "But I thought you said she wasn't—that your—"

"Daughter," he supplies.

That stops her short. Her brow crumples as she struggles to process the new information. "Oh. Right. But—but why would you be… buying your _daughter_ a book of romantic poetry?" Even as she says it, Rose wants to smack herself. But apparently, polite conversation has completely abandoned her at this point, and she's been left with only the most unbearably awkward of questions.

The man, however, doesn't look offended. In fact, he seems quite happy to explain. "For a wedding present. She's getting married, day after Christmas." He rolls his eyes, but his curved lips tell another story. Rose finds she quite likes the effect. "Like she needs more occasions to get gifts. But Heather—that's her fiancée—studies literature. Thought some Shakespeare might help Bill keep up. But this isn't for her," he explains, gently closing the book. His thumb traces the spine. "It's for me."

At that, any residual worry seems to slip away, and Rose finds herself smiling even brighter than before. "Oh, _good_."

"Is it?" he asks, eyebrow arching.

"God, yes—you've handled it so carefully. I know it's in good hands." Her blush catches up with her as she realizes how effusive she's being—how _ridiculous—_ and though he doesn't seem put off, she forces her mouth shut. She does her best to _keep_ it shut, too, as she rings up the book, wrapping it gently in bubble wrap and then brown paper. And she only offers him another polite smile and “have a lovely afternoon” as he makes for the door, shooting unreadable glances over his shoulder.

Once he moves beyond the windows, black coat and unruly hair disappearing, Rose allows herself to exhale.

"What the _hell_ was that?" she demands of herself, rubbing the heels of her hands against her eyes. Her palms smell of old paper, and that makes her groan even more miserably, slouching against the counter behind her. “‘Handled kindly’? ‘Good hands’? _Christ._ ”

She jumps a little, however, when she feels a sharp nudge at her hip. Looking down, she sees the oddest thing—

A copy of _Shakespeare's Sonnets_ , the revised edition.

It's nothing special—a hardback that's old, but not old enough to be worth much. Clearly well-used, too, with an inscription inside that indicates it was once a token of affection. And it was _precisely_ the copy she'd been looking for before.

She remembers, then, that she'd been reading it only a week or so ago, having unearthed it from a new shipment of books from an auction house. She hadn't shelved it properly and someone, it seemed, had shoved it under the counter to be dealt with later.

And now, the man doesn’t have a wedding present for his daughter.

Rose, with a sudden rush, picks the book up.

And runs—right out the door, flipping the sign to say "Closed" as she dashes in the direction the man had gone, eyes scanning the crowd of afternoon shoppers. She kicks herself for not looking harder at the name on the card; she doesn't even know what he's called, what name to shout. But she's sure that she'll know him if she sees him, so she squints and searches the crowd of black peacoats and scarves until she spots him on the crosswalk.

And then, mortifyingly, she cries, "Sir! Wait!"

Her voice carries over the sound of traffic, somehow, and over the babble of voices, and she knows he hears her because he turns—pulling something out of his ear. He's wearing headphones, she realizes, and she calls again—" _Hey!_ "—hoping he'll notice her. She waves.

He seems something between amused and bewildered when he picks her out, and he turns back at the crosswalk, moving against the crowd and towards her.

She jogs up to him, holding the book to her chest. "I found it," she says without preamble, coming to a slippery stop before him. Her plimsolls aren’t meant for this snow. "A copy of the sonnets. For your daughter."

His brows are furrowed, and as she holds the book out to him, she is keenly aware of how strange she must look to him. Panting and red, chasing a stranger down in the snow to give him a book.

"It was behind the counter," she explains. "Must've gotten—y'know, shifted."

"Right." He looks down at the book, but makes no move to take it. Looking back up at her, he frowns. The expression comes very naturally to him—like he's used to being irritated by people, or confused. "But I didn't pay for it."

 _Right._ She hadn't thought of that bit. But she thinks quickly. "It's—it's my treat. Call it a gift. From Rose."

"Rose," the man repeats. She wonders if he'll go on looking at her like that all day: as if he doesn't understand her whatsoever. But as the moment lingers, and her hand starts to sag with the weight of the book, something in him softens. The furrows in his forehead and the sharp lines around his mouth ease. He reaches out and takes the book. "Rose," he says again. "Thank you."

"It was no trouble," she says, which is a lie, and they both know it. She'd be sacked if her boss knew she left the place unattended to run after a stranger and give away a book. "Happy Christmas."

She notices that the snow has begun to gather in his hair again, dampening some of the curls. And his eyes are—they're really very—

"Happy Christmas, Rose." And then, with a faltering smile, he turns to go, leaving her to stare at his back, and then walk back to the shop in a daze.

-

Several weeks into the new year, Rose receives some mail at the shop, in amongst the usual detritus—bills and advertisements and order forms. This one is on lovely cream stationery and neatly penned by hand, addressed from a Bill and Heather Potts.

Rose recognizes the names instantly, and she tears open the envelope without a second thought, her heart doing gymnastics in her chest. Inside is a thank you note on thick cardstock.

_Dear Rose,_

_Thank you so much for your thoughtful wedding gift. We're amazed that you seem to know our taste in books so well, despite not knowing us at all! But Iain was quite insistent that we give you all the credit. So, you have our heartfelt thanks._

_Omniscient as you seem, forgive us for assuming you don’t have this privileged information—_

Beneath is a string of numbers, and Rose feels her cheeks heat.

_We hope you'll use it. When he gave us the gift, Iain talked about you more than we've ever seen him talk about… well, anything. We’ve taken that as a good sign._

_Hope to meet you soon._

_Best,_

_Heather and Bill_

Rose stands there for a whole minute before her heart slows and her hand drops away from her face, leaving behind the most absurd smile. Wide and white and wondering. Rose leans back against the counter and, as she re-reads the note, she laughs.

And, a few days later, she calls.


	19. Christmas Jumpers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: christmas jumpers  
> pairing: nine x rose, nine & rose & jack  
> rating: teen (alcohol consumption)
> 
> _in which the doctor and jack engage in a friendly contest._

On her way into the console room, one of her bunny slippers caught precariously on a large bundle of wires which, Rose could safely say, had _not_ been there before.

In fact, nothing currently spread out across the grating had been there before—including the two men, who were sprawled on the floor and laughing uproariously over the sound of Christmas music. As she tripped her way through the clutter—tangled cables, fairy lights, twisty ropes of tinsel and garland, and more than one bottle of something—Rose called out, “What are you up to, then?”

The Doctor looked up first, his lips instantly spreading into a large, unmistakable smile. “Rose!” he cried delightedly. “You’re back!” He said this like it was marvelously unexpected: like he’d previously been worried she’d disappeared to another planet, rather than to the relative safety of her own shower, and only now could his fear be vanquished.

“‘Course I am,” she laughed. Jack, too, was smiling quite suspiciously wide. He seemed to be the source of the garland and glitter, the silvery boughs winding around him like a shimmering moat. She was so caught up in looking over their mess that she nearly missed him shoving something distinctly bottle-shaped behind his back. She shook her head incredulously. “Have you two been drinking?”

“No, sir,” Jack lied, while nodding the affirmative. “We’re having a competition!”

“Right.” Rose glanced back and forth between him and the Doctor again, only to notice the mossy green jumper draped over the Doctor’s legs. It appeared to be hopelessly entangled with wires of every sort, and more than one strand of Christmas lights. But the Doctor seemed quite content with his work, and was currently going at it with a warbly setting on his sonic screwdriver. “A competition to what—clutter up the console room?”

“Jack told me about this—this _fantastic_ tradition,” the Doctor replied, once more looking up at her with an enthusiastic grin. He seemed to be slurring his words a bit, working harder for them than usual. “S’called an ugly jumper contest—or, ugly _sweater._ What sort of a word is that?” He winced. “ _Sweater._ How American. Anyway, whoever has the ugliest jumper wins!”

He seemed genuinely quite eager about the prospect of winning, and Rose couldn’t help but laugh. She’d heard of the tradition, but never imagined it being taken to this sort of extreme. “And you’re… _making_ your own ugly Christmas jumpers?”

“Well, modifying,” Jack piped up, lifting his project out of his lap. At a base level, it might’ve been a nice enough jumper—it was a deep, ruby red with a thick, soft-looking knit. But Jack had made a few key additions: it was trimmed inexpertly in glittering tinsel, and across the front of it, words were taking shape, formed from dozens of silver rhinestones. She could make out a rather sloppy “MERRY K,” but nothing more than that.

The Doctor’s was, by far, the more incomprehensible creation. He seemed to be stitching—and melting—such a tremendous quantity of fairy lights to the fabric that it looked, to Rose, more like a fire hazard than a wearable object. Every now and again, the entire string of lights would flicker on and then off again, and he would grumble something unintelligible. She watched this go on for some time, and both the Doctor and Jack seemed to forget that they were supposed to be acting Not Drunk. Though why they thought _she_ would disapprove was a mystery only their intoxicated minds could concoct.

As Jack took a healthy swig from what appeared to be a bottle of hypervodka, his eyes sparkled up to her with practised innocence. “Want some?”

Rose snorted. “Not a chance.”

“Scared?” Jack taunted, wiggling the bottle out in front of him. A little bit of it splashed out and down his fingers, and the Doctor rolled his eyes. But Rose just shook her head, looking at him with a mix of affection and exasperation. He was a horrible flirt when he drank—though, really, he was a horrible flirt _all the time_ —and she knew that the pleading would come next.

"Not a bit. I can drink you both under the table and you know it," she said severely, though she felt she wasn't doing a very good job of it. The pair of them were just looking up at her with vague, pleasant sort of expressions. "But I don't fancy a hangover when we drop by the rift tomorrow. Cardiff's bad enough as it is."

Jack pouted. "If you won't drink with me, will you at least help me win the contest?" The Doctor snorted, making it clear what he thought of _that._

"No cheating," he said firmly, frowning at his jumper.

"I'll drink with you another night," Rose capitulated, noting Jack's generous application of pleading eyes and puckered lips. He was so predictable—and yet, she found herself grinning down at him. He scooted closer, as though he could convince her to help by proximity alone.

He nodded contentedly, his hair ruffling against her denims. "It's a date, Rosie."

That summoned another huff from the Doctor. And Rose gave a laugh of her own. "You won't catch me that easily, Captain Jack. I don't go on dates with rogues. I like _nice_ men."

"I am nice," he whinged.

"Debatable." The Doctor all but glowered as Jack leaned his head against Rose's thigh, but seemed to lighten when the man hissed, having burnt his figures on the glue gun.

"I _cannot_ believe," Jack moaned, "that in an infinite timeship, all you've got as far as crafting supplies 's one shitty glue-gun from the seventies."

"No, mate, all _you've_ got is one shitty glue-gun from the seventies," the Time Lord bragged. "I've got a s-sonic screwdriver."

"You're entirely too proud of that thing." But Jack eyed the sonic covetously.

Rose decided to step in before they started brawling over the sonic. "So, what's your jumper going to say?" she asked, dropping her hand into Jack's hair. It was feather soft and impossibly fluffy, and when she carded through it, he leaned more heavily against her thigh. She wondered if he'd get distracted and ruin his jumper—did that count as cheating in the Doctor's favor?

But the Doctor didn't seem to care much for his project anymore. He was glaring openly at Jack, who was laying out his design scheme. "S'gonna say 'Merry Kissmas,'" the dazed Captain explained. "And then I'm gonna make lips out 'f red sequins. In case they can’t read."

"Lovely," she laughed. "I'm sure it'll be terribly effective."

"It will," he agreed eagerly, reaching up and grabbing her hand to make it dig more deeply into his hair. "Speaking of kisses—if you refuse to go on a date with me, can I at least get one tiny, measly, totally-platonic, just-to-satisfy-my-curiosity kiss?"

"You really don't give up," Rose observed fondly. But her eyes were on the Doctor, who had suddenly gone from intense glaring to what looked like a total lack of interest. Once again, the sonic was whirring and a bit of cable seemed to be melting into the seams of the jumper. The console room was starting to smell slightly of singed wool—which was only just an improvement on the sharp odor of hypervodka.

"I promise I'll never ask again," Jack vowed solemnly. One arm was around her calf now, and he seemed to be only half-aware of his spelling as he continued gluing rhinestones. "And I'm never gonna win, anyway. I mean, who can compete with a sweater that _glows?_ "

He looked so pathetically sulky that Rose couldn't help but give in, and she bent down to deposit an affectionate kiss on the tip of his nose. She felt his face scrunch and his lips pucker, but he laughed when he realized that a peck on the nose was all he'd be getting. "Thanks, Rosie," he said warmly. “Merry Kissmas to you!” And then he squeezed her leg and let go, getting back to work with barely so much as a wink.

His hands weren't _steady,_ by any means, but he seemed quite a bit more capable than before. _Devious thing._

The Doctor, on the other hand, seemed to be losing faith in his project. Shifting between the tinsel and wires, Rose found a spot beside him where she could sit, and she watched him hold the jumper up this way and that, looking it over with a highly critical eye. It seemed that not even a massive quantity of hypervodka was enough to make him less competitive. “And you, Doctor?”

“I don’t need a kiss, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She blinked at that. “It wasn’t.” And, to her surprise, the Doctor tucked his chin and his cheeks started to go the way of Rudolph’s nose. It was so odd and out of character that she glanced wildly at Jack, wondering if he was seeing the same thing she was. The knowing little smirk on his lips was answer enough. “I was asking about your sweater.”

The Doctor cleared his throat. “Well, Rose, it’s a bit complicated, you see? I’m trying to wire it up in—in the shape of that—that _thing,_ what’s it called?” He muttered to himself, still intently not looking at her. “The one what comes for the kids at Christmas. He’s all hairy… and big.”

“Santa?”

He looked at her then, utterly deadpan. “ _Rose._ I _know_ who Santa is.”

But his baleful expression was enough to crack her feeble resolution not to laugh at him, and a giggle tumbled out. “Right. I mean, I don’t know what you do or don’t know about Earth holidays! But—if it’s not Santa, I’ve got _no_ idea what you’re talking about.”

The Doctor grumbled something then, about Christmas being a silly tradition anyway, and he was so grumpy and determined as he set back to work—murmuring additional identifying details about this Non-Santa—that Rose felt compelled to speak up again, lest the whole _point_ of the competition get lost in meaningless tension and sulking.

“Doctor,” she said softly. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want a kiss? For luck? It seems only fair.” She picked at her cuticles for a moment, and then nibbled her bottom lip. She didn’t know why she was pressing—only, she wanted to cheer him up. To get his mind off of his odd and unexplained irritation. “I wouldn’t want him to have any unfair advantage,” she added.

Looking up at her, the Doctor’s expression was completely unreadable. But his blue eyes were wide and focused on her, and she suddenly felt like _she_ was the one who had drank all the hypervodka—the proximity made her dizzy, and she was leaning toward him in an almost involuntary manner—like the ship was rocking and she was moving with it. And then, in the tiniest possible gesture, he gave a sudden nod.

So, she kissed him.

The residual alcohol on his lips tasted like the bitter skins of berries. His mouth cushioned hers, surprisingly soft and warm. She was _kissing_ him, and she couldn’t find a way to stop, or to even _want_ to stop. And then, when she thought she might have to, his hand abandoned its work and crept up to cradle her cheek. A trail of Christmas lights came with it, their warm glow heating her skin.

With his shining hand, he gently tilted her face, angling it against his until his mouth caught hers just right, and she could feel the soft slide of his tongue against her bottom lip—and Rose thought it was entirely likely that she’d _never_ be able to stop kissing him after this.

But then, the Doctor ripped his mouth away. “Krampus!” he all but shouted. “That’s the one. With the tongue!” She was startled enough that when his mouth reconnected with hers, her lips were parted wide, and she got a mouthful of Doctor and tongue and she had to hold on to his shoulders to keep herself from being blown over.

He kissed her with a thoroughness and vigor that should’ve been impossible, given the supposedly cloudy state of his mind. She felt everything in her go limp and pliant and pleased, until he released her. “Krampus,” he repeated happily.

His smile was wide as he got back to work, bent over his jumper, like he hadn’t just kissed the sense right out of her.

She looked at the Doctor, and then at Jack, in awe.

Jack just grinned back at her, a knowing little sparkle in his eye that made her want to simultaneously blush and cheer aloud. And—she thought that _maybe_ she could detect the faintest of blushes on the Doctor’s cheeks. As he babbled on about Krampus and horns and tongues and continued eagerly destroying his nice wool jumper, Rose leaned back contentedly and thought that maybe she _did_ want a drink.

She reached out to Jack, who passed her the bottle of hypervodka. When she was inevitably called upon to judge this competition, she wanted to be good and sloshed. Because she very much intended for the winner to get a kiss.


	20. Love (and Box)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompts: love (and box)  
> pairing: ten x rose  
> rating: general
> 
> _in which the doctor and rose are finally reunited._
> 
> note: this is a follow-up to prompt #9, _snowflake._

In the end, after all that time—all that searching—he is the one who comes to her.

She is standing in the archives when it happens.

It’s one of her favorite places in all of Torchwood Tower—the place she goes when she feels too exhausted to face her co-workers and their pitying looks. On the very bottom floor, with poured concrete on all sides, it _should_ perhaps feel similar to Van Statten’s bunker. But this place feels different, somehow. More like a library. Rather than physical artifacts, displayed like tokens of war or holy relics, the archive is populated by paperwork. Information. Endless reams of it. Discs and drives, paperbacks and hardbacks, printed memos and photographs.

She loves to flip through them all and imagine that the photos she’s seeing, the words she’s reading or playing through her headphones, are the Doctor’s. In a small way, it feels like being inside his mind—teeming with tales that touch the stars. It makes her feel as close to him as she ever can, with all the void between them.

She’s been coming here a lot in the past few days—perhaps too often, since their near miss. The knowledge that they’d been on the same planet, staring up at the same canopy of clouds as acid snow fell onto the evacuated city, had filled her with a certain amount of pain that no message—no cheery “Merry Christmas!”—could really alleviate. She’s been close before, brushing by bodies that she knows to be him and yet, due to the nature of what he is, _not_ him.

But for Mickey to _see_ him. To _speak_ to him. And then for the both of them to be pulled away and left to pick up the pieces—left not knowing where the Doctor intended to go next, or what he’d been doing there, or whether he’s searching for her...

It’s painful in a way that she can’t express, filling her with a need to surround herself in memories—in him.

She flips through an old-looking photobook with details of a planet that’s long since disappeared from this universe: just another thing for her to worry about, of course, but she tries not to think too hard about it. Not today. The grainy photographs reveal a kaleidoscope of color and shapes swirling on the planet’s surface. Her finger brushes the outer ring—what looks like a thin wisp of gold is actually thousands of miles wide, riddled with lethally sharp rock. She feels a sense of awe.

And then, it happens.

-

The blast occurs on the eighteenth floor—the floor which is almost entirely dedicated to the Dimension Hopper project. Rose doesn’t know this when she starts running, the tails of her winter coat flying out behind her, but she finds out soon enough.

None of the lifts are working, and people are flooding down the staircases: a sea of white lab coats and uneasy babble. The evacuation protocol is clear. The alarms are blaring.

Rose takes one look at the crowd and charges up the stairs.

The current shifts around her—making way for the boss’s daughter. Nobody even tries to stop her; everyone in Torchwood knows that the odd girl goes her own way. She takes the steps two at a time, lurching upwards and into the dust and smoke that blooms from the eighteenth-floor entry. “Of _course,_ ” she mumbles, bracing herself and then shoving the door open.

At first, she can see nothing—no real evidence of something going wrong. The air is too opaque, heavy with plaster, only cut through with thick beams of flashing light. Red, for emergencies.

“Hello?” she calls, her voice immediately going hoarse from all the smoke. She coughs and then tries again. “Hello? Is everyone alright?” She hurriedly tries to run through what she knows of the day’s roster—who is here, who isn’t. What part of the building they might _actually_ be in, if not here. Mickey, if her memory serves, isn’t in today. But—Toshiko might be, she thinks, a sinking feeling in her stomach.

With her hand outstretched, she can hardly even see it for all the smoke. And there are sounds all around—the alarm; what sounds like gas venting from a pipe; the low, electric buzz of machinery, pushed to a high, thready whir.

“Tosh!” Rose shouts, pulling the collar of her coat higher to block out some of the smoke.

The sound of coughing answers her, and she dashes in what she _thinks_ is the right direction, calling out again.

“Tosh! Are you okay?”

“Over here,” a voice croaks.

She runs past the landing pad and complicated launch system—so many lights and buttons, blinking and sparking, completely haywire. Untold damage has been done to the dimension cannon, but she _can't_ think about it.

Some of the smoke starts to thin out, and she can make out a body, slumped against a wall. She’s hard to see, with her white coat against the white wall, but the jet hair identifies her as Toshiko, and Rose feels a burst of relief. She careens to a stop and falls to her knees.

“Are you hurt? What _happened?_ ”

Tosh makes a vague gesture to the left, which draws Rose’s eye to another crumpled body. The smoke must be clearing even further, because she can clearly tell that it’s Rex Matheson—he’s unmistakable in his dapper suit, even unconscious. As she crawls over to him, she sees the cut on his temple dripping blood and feels another spike of panic. “We need a medic!” Rose cries, looking around for someone—anyone else—who would’ve come running in the direction of the crash. “Help! Someone, help!”

“Rose?”

“Dad!” The reply is automatic. She turns to look for him, only to notice that the smoke has almost entirely cleared. The landing pad is in plain sight—as is the object sitting on top of it, like a many-tiered cake on a large platter. A beautiful, unmistakable blue box.

Everything else seems to fade away.

Rose’s hand flies up to her mouth, holding back the torrent of emotion that tries to break through. She can’t tell if she wants to sob or shout, but she contains it all and gets shakily off of her knees. Adrenaline shoves her forward for several uneven steps.

“Rose,” Pete calls again, coming into view. “Are you alright? What’s going on?” He’s frowning and whether or not he’s noticed the TARDIS, he isn’t looking at it. His eyes are on her, scanning for injury, assessing her current state.

“I'm fine. Dr. Harper, go check Tosh and Rex," she commands, instinct taking over. There are people to help, people who only work on this floor because of her. _But—_

"The TARDIS,” she gasps, her eyes inexorably drawn back to the telephone box. “It’s—he’s—”

Her floundering is cut off by a wide shaft of yellow-green light, which streams out of the now-open door of the TARDIS. And the sound of a voice: “Oh, _great_. Doctor, I think you crashed through a wall.”

“What?”

His voice, unmistakable. Indignant.

“Don’t take that tone with me. You did! Now you’re the worst pilot in _two_ universes.” The owner of the first voice, a woman with a waterfall of vivid red hair—it must be the woman Mickey had met—appears in the doorway, peeking out. And then, behind her—

Rose isn’t sure what she feels, only it makes her whole body go rigid with shock.

The Doctor—because it’s _him, it’s really him_ —steps out of the TARDIS and looks around, his eyes searching for something so intently that Rose can actually see the moment they skim over her and then proceed. Something rushes up in her then, sudden and hot and furious, and her fists clench at her sides. But she stays quiet, trying not to react to the way he swaggers out through the open doors, wearing his usual expression—combined interest, curiosity, superiority.

_He’s here,_ she thinks frantically. _He’s here, and it’s not for me._

Which means, logically, that something much bigger is going on, and she should probably be frightened.

She isn’t. She isn’t _anything._ She’s in shock.

Right up until he tilts his head, looks at her, and says, “Where’s Mickey?”

-

In hindsight, Rose was never sure what exactly possessed her to pick up the hopper at her side—a large disc with a canary yellow center, a piece of technology that had been labored over for _months_ —and fling it at the Doctor’s head. Rage, perhaps? A misplaced desire to make him _see_ her? It’s difficult to know.

But, in that moment, it’s the only thing that makes sense.

It doesn’t hit him—she’s never had the best aim, and she doesn’t actually want to hurt him, and anyway, he dodges it with barely a shift of his head—and instead clatters where it lands inside the TARDIS, and she can almost _feel_ Tosh wincing behind her.

But Rose can barely _breathe_ from how angry she’s suddenly become. “‘Where’s Mickey?’” she parrots back at him, her throat raw with smoke and emotion. “That’s gonna be your opener?”

The Doctor’s face is predictably shocked, as if she’s doing something he couldn’t possibly have accounted for. Which makes her even _more_ upset. This is all she’s been dreaming about for—for _two entire years_. And he’s just swanning out, casual as you like, and asking after Mickey. _Mickey!_

“You’re doing it all wrong,” the woman pipes up from behind him. When she steps out, she’s wearing a look of undisguised enjoyment—like she’s watching a very engaging television programme. “What did we talk about?”

The Doctor turns and glances back over his shoulder. “But, Donna—we—time is of the essence,” he says helplessly, glancing back at Rose with a pleading expression. “The rate at which the stars are disappearing has _increased_ since I discovered that you and Mickey were making jumps. I scanned him, purely by accident, and noticed that there was some instability surrounding his—”

“Doctor.” Donna— _yes, that was the name_ —cuts him off firmly. “ _What_ did we talk about?”

Rose almost smiles at the way the Doctor looks at Donna. Like he’s slightly terrified of her. _She must be a force of nature,_ Rose decides, immediately wanting to know the woman who can bring the tempestuous Time Lord to heel.

He doesn’t look quite so much like a Lord of Time as his shoulders sag and he gives a great, put-upon exhale. When he turns back to Rose, his eyes are like she remembers—how she can recall him looking at her, before. They’re wide and uncertain, soft around the edges. It looks like it’s taking everything in him to maintain that eye contact; he was always turning away, back then, as if what was between them was simply too much to take.

But he doesn’t look away now.

The Doctor takes a deep, steadying breath, and then says, “Rose Tyler, I love you. Even though,” he adds with a frown, “you just threw something at my head, after I came all this way to see you.”

“I thought you came to see Mickey,” she jokes, her voice watery. It’s hard to speak through the lump in her throat. _Rose Tyler,_ she hears, the words rippling over her like a wave in a pool. _I love you._ _Rose Tyler, I love you. Rose Tyler_ —

The Doctor shakes his head, a crooked smile stealing over his lips. “No,” he says, so softly. “No, I didn’t.”

It’s the smile that does it, breaking the tenuous grip of her self control until she’s launching herself up at him—arms scrambling to get around his neck, her feet leaving the stability of the floor in favor of swinging wildly as he hugs her—and hugs her—and _hugs_ her. His arms band around her back, holding her to him. She can feel his chest shift as he laughs, and she tilts her head, tucking her nose into the side of his neck. “I love you,” she whispers. “I’m sorry I threw a dimension hopper at you.”

He laughs again, setting her down unsteadily—but he doesn’t let go of her, and she _can’t_ let go of him. She can hardly believe the solidity of him beneath her fingers, and they seem to brace themselves against one another. Arms gripping arms, smiles passing between them like they were never even apart.

She wants to hear him say it again— _Rose Tyler, I love you_ —or maybe a thousand times more, but she can already feel the shifting of his attention. He is becoming aware that they have an audience, and that audience includes Pete and, regretfully, not Mickey. “He’s at home,” she says, an answer to his unspoken question. “We can go see him. God, he’ll _lose_ it.” The shifting of her attention reminds her of Tosh, of Rex, of the others who potentially need medical help.

“Pete,” she begins, falling naturally into her usual role of Extraterrestrial Expert and, thus, an authority. “We need to get Dr. Harper and the injured down to medical, so he can tend to them properly. Don’t allow anyone in here for clean-up, though—we can’t risk anyone meddling with the TARDIS. Actually—” and here, she glances at the Doctor, thinking quickly, “she shouldn’t even be functional right now. How did you _do_ that?” She doesn’t wait for him to answer, turning back to everyone else. “Once we’re out, I advise putting a cordon up around this floor. Keep the building evacuated for the next twenty-four hours—will that be long enough?”

The Doctor, eyes wide and crinkled with a barely-suppressed smile, nods. She doesn’t see what’s so amusing; this is her life here.

It’s who she’s had to become. She tears her eyes away from the Time Lord.

“Great.” She nods once at Pete, who is already on the move. “See you for dinner tomorrow?” She calls out, and her breach in professionalism must be unexpected, because Pete’s head jerks up and he nods back, looking rather pleased.

It seems that the others—for, in fact, there are several techs and scientists who had been watching her little reunion—are also hopping to it, and they all brush by the Doctor with only curious glances. Rose can imagine why: he doesn’t _look_ alien. He’s hardly _acting_ alien. Short of the explosion, he’s probably _fantastically_ underwhelming.

_Not to me._ Rose, now grinning, takes his hand in hers. “Let’s go see Mickey.”

-

The Doctor’s rundown of the situation certainly isn’t comprehensive—nor is it particularly coherent—but Rose thinks she can piece together the important bits, once she’s settled down on Mickey’s couch. The structural integrity of the wall between the universes seems to be wearing down, and the Doctor hadn’t had any idea of _why_ until he’d bumped into Mickey a few days back. He rattles off a bunch of terms that she’s heard Tosh use before, but has never really understood—“artron energy” and “temporal anomalies” seem to come up fairly often.

She tries to make sense of what she can, and it’s—as usual—embarrassingly little. Her only real comfort is that Donna seems equally lost.

In essence, she and Mickey are the “temporal anomalies” part of the equation, and their presence on this earth has been causing all the stars to go out. Though, “go out” is apparently not the right term.

The way the Doctor tells it, their very biosignatures are constantly reaching, trying to reunite with their home universe: pressing not just themselves, but this whole _universe_ up against the boundaries of the void in an effort to get through. And what’s more, they’d been poking _holes_ in the metaphysical “wall” with their constant hopping—creating tiny pinpricks which had, given enough time and energy, sucked whole planets through, into the black maw of the void.

Apparently, the Doctor explains at top speed, the pull also works in reverse; their home universe is reaching toward them, too, and as the tendrils of it—stardust and space—had sought them, it _too_ was losing pieces of itself to the void.

Sometime during the Doctor’s summary, Rose feels Mickey’s hand cross the space between them on the sofa and slide over hers. He squeezes. She just stares at the Doctor, unable to process all that she’s heard. “So,” she finally says, “this is all my fault.”

The Doctor just blinks at her. It’s evident that he doesn’t understand how she might’ve come to that conclusion. “No,” he replies, voice earnest. He sounds entirely convinced. “It’s not. You couldn’t have known.”

“I _should’ve_ known,” she shoots back. “You said—you told me that if you tried to come through properly—” Rose doesn’t know how to keep going; her throat is stopped by guilt and sorrow. All those stars. All those _planets._ All because she hadn’t known how to let go. She’d been so caught up in her own human misery, her little crusade, that she’d condemned entire worlds to death. She pales even further. “Were they—were any of them— _inhabited?_ ” Her voice cracks on the word.

“ _No,_ ” he insists. And then the Doctor launches off of Rita-Anne’s old armchair—Mickey had taken it with him, when he moved out of his Gran’s house after her death, and she can never look at it without thinking of the sharp-tongued old woman. On his knees, the Doctor pulls her other hand off of her lap, holding it in both of his. “Both universes are massive and largely uninhabited, with most life incomprehensibly far away from either version of Earth. The tears in spacetime didn’t correspond with your physical arrival, so—Rose?”

She wants to ask him, “What?” but finds that she is shuddering with unspent sobs of relief and is unable to speak.

“The planets you found—the people you saved—they’re _alive,_ Rose. You didn’t hurt anyone.” And then his arms curl around her, and he smells so much like home and _feels_ so much like home that the tears find their way out, soaking into the rough cotton of his trench coat. She cries until he gives her the validation she’d been unknowingly wanting, all these months and months spent traveling: “You’ve saved so many lives. You did everything you possibly could to find me. Rose,” he whispers into her hair, “you were brilliant. I’m so _proud_ of you.”

The words are so unlike him, and yet, they’re exactly what she needs. Which, really, is _just_ like him.

Rose leans further into his embrace, and she cries until she can’t anymore.

-

There are complications, of course. Jackie being the primary one. She has to stay—because of Tony. The Doctor tries to launch into some lengthy explanation about how pregnancy alters one’s physiological makeup, but Rose is determined not to hear it. She’ll be leaving her mother behind, _again._ That’s the part she hears, and the part she struggles with.

Similarly, Mickey has to come. Not that he has any _reason_ to stay. Since Rita-Anne’s death, he’s been drifting—the Dimension Project giving him the daily purpose he’d otherwise lack. But it’ll be hard, leaving his life at Torchwood behind.

When she goes to tell her mum, Rose cries again. She breaks down to such an extent that she’s _certain_ the Doctor is reconsidering his determination to take her back to her home universe, that he’s trying to calculate some _other_ way even as she sobs. But her mum just rolls her eyes at him, saying, “Of course she’s crying. I’m her _mother,_ you plum.”

Still, when she releases her daughter, Jackie’s eyes have their own glossy sheen. They’d spent months and months expecting each trip with the hopper to be Rose’s last—to be the one from which she’d never return. Of all their goodbyes, they’d never expected one like this: with the Doctor, his companion, and Mickey standing behind, waiting for her. To be able to take their time, and for that not to be enough.

Jackie takes the opportunity to be her usual bossy self; she bids the Doctor take care of her daughter. “No leaving her behind on derelict spaceships!” She wags her finger, and the Doctor pales so suddenly that the woman takes pity on him. “And take care of yourself, too.”

There are other goodbyes Rose would like to make, but she somehow feels that the longer they wait—the more opportunities they have not to go—the worse it’ll be. And the greater the chance that _this_ planet will be sucked in through the cracks in the universe. When she gets back to Torchwood, she assigns Pete the task of doling out the rest of her goodbyes: Max—who has woken up and is under observation—and Tosh and the rest.

She even hugs Pete, tears filling her eyes. He’d tried so hard to be a father to her, in the end. And, in some small way, he’d succeeded.

“So much for dinner, eh?” He laughs, holding her close. “Anything to avoid your mother’s cooking, I guess.”

Rose forces herself to pull away and look at him, blurry though he is. “Wish I could stay,” she says softly. “But she doesn’t need me. She’s got you.” Pete’s mouth tightens; she used to think it was a sign of irritation, or perhaps disdain. Now she just knows it’s how he keeps the tears from coming. “Thanks for being my dad,” she whispers. “Even just for a bit.”

When she releases him for good, his eyes are even shinier than her mum’s.

Turning her back on him—on all of Torchwood… she’d never expected it to be so difficult. But it is. It’s the hardest thing she’s ever done.

-

The angst and pain only lasts a few moments once she’s back on the TARDIS, where everything around her is a familiar balm. The green light of the console, the warm glow of the corals, the rickety jump seat—all of it fills her with an odd longing, despite the fact that it’s right in front of her. The place where she’d known so much happiness, so much sorrow; where she’d fallen in love and where she’d feared, more than anything, the loss of that love: it’s here, all around her.

Almost every memory that has ever meant something to her.

Everything she’d been searching for, for _two entire years._

She wants to walk around and _touch_ it all—take in every change, no matter how minute—but the Doctor is already at the rotor, readying for them to take off. As he’d said upon landing in this universe: _Time is of the essence._

He looks at her, obviously uncertain. She wonders if he doubts his decision to come and find her—to save the universes, and divide her from her family once again. But then she smiles at him—tremulous, tender, and assured—and he mirrors her look so easily, like he always does.

“Hang on,” the Doctor announces, flicking a switch with every bit of his usual dramatic flair. “We’re in for a rough ride.”

Rose feels her pulse jump. She can clearly identify the feeling: eagerness. Excitement. All her regrets were left beyond the closed door of the timeship. She’s _ready._

And all that readiness is reflected on Donna’s expressive face—on Mickey’s, with his wide and familiar grin. They all take hold of the central console, preparing for flight. And when the time rotor _roars,_ groaning in that familiar way that makes her heart skip and her lungs seize, Rose takes it all in.

She made it.

She’s _home._


	21. Star (and New Beginnings)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompts: star (and new beginnings)  
> pairing: ten x rose  
> rating: general
> 
> _in which a star is named._

So far, the new house didn't have anything in it—or, at least, nothing but the Christmas tree.

Jenny had been adamant, even as her parents carried box after box from their beat-up blue van, that they had to unpack the Christmas tree first. "Daddy," she'd pleaded, trailing behind him like a little blonde shadow, "can we trim the tree now? I want to see my ornaments!"

"First thing," he'd said, probably for the tenth time. "Soon as we get all these boxes inside the house." And for probably the tenth time, Jenny's efforts to help had redoubled: picking up the few child-sized boxes, and when that failed, opening the larger ones up right there in the boot, so she could carry individual items into the house.

Which had the opposite of her desired effect. But Rose couldn't help smiling at her daughter’s enthusiasm, and at John’s patience as he carried open boxes into the house, Jenny swinging happily off of his arm.

Logistically, moving during the holidays had been a nightmare. Getting a moving company around Christmas Day had taken some doing, and even with all of their efforts, they'd still be ringing in the new year without much furniture.

Even _more_ to the point, it would be Jenny's first Christmas away from London—away from her Nan; from their rickety old chimney that John and Rose had _insisted_ Santa Claus could fit through; from her old classmates who gave out peppermint sticks and allergy-sensitive, no-oven-required cookies. It was going to be their first Christmas away from home—or, as John insistently put it, _in their new home._

Rose felt a constant worry that Jenny would wake up one morning and realize the loss of all things familiar, and the thought of her daughter's dear little face ruddy with tears and tumult was enough to turn her stomach.

But at the moment, Jenny's biggest concern seemed to be getting the Christmas tree decorated. The tree, which they had rather madly transported atop their car, all the way from London—fresh-cut off the lot, or as fresh-cut as any of those evergreens could be—seemed something of an absurdity, out here in green Gloucestershire, surrounded by taller and nobler trees. But they hauled it into the house nonetheless, where Jenny fussed over it like a mother hen, fluffing its branches and eyeing boughs with an eye to ornament placement.

She was a bright child. Very much like her father, to Rose's way of thinking, in her quickness and spirit. Jenny could adapt to almost anything, and Rose hoped that gift would protect her from the worst parts of packing up and leaving home.

Rose had thought far enough ahead to pack the kettle and its accoutrements in their van, and set about making tea for the trio, popping in to place a few ornaments while the water warmed. Jenny, of course, commanded her father as to the particular placement of ornaments on upper branches that she couldn't reach, often cutting in with, " _No,_ Daddy, _not_ there," over the sound of tinny Christmas music playing from John's mobile. There were also repeated admonitions of, "No, _higher!_ " As if John's aesthetic mistakes were both obvious and frustrating. 

They probably were _,_ Rose thought with some amusement. John, for all his brilliance and many degrees, did seem to lack any sort of eye for design.

When Rose came back with their steaming mugs—Earl Grey for herself; black for John, though they didn't have any milk; and herbal peppermint for Jenny—the little girl had somehow talked her father into hoisting her up onto his shoulders so she could properly decorate the top bits. It appeared that she wanted to cut out the middleman and see to the specifics herself.

It was a precious sight: the golden glow reflected off of their smiling faces, Jenny's arms outstretched and glimmering ornaments hanging from her small fingers. Rose had felt the lack of holiday cheer for days—lost in amongst the boxes, perhaps, and last-minute errands—but now, her heart was merry and bright.

John glanced Rose's way, eyeing the tea eagerly, and winked before turning his attention back to Jenny. "Ready for a break, moppet?"

Their daughter paused, considering. "Can we do the star first?"

"If you like," he replied, lowering her back down to the floor. He began to rifle through the Christmas boxes in search of their star.

Rose smiled to herself, setting aside their mugs and settling in to watch. The placement of the star was always the most important part of the delicate tree-trimming operation—Jenny was particularly adamant that it stood straight and perfect at the top. Each year, John and Jenny conspired to name their star after one in the sky, putting his astronomical knowledge and her creative will together. Two years ago, it had been called Rigel, the blue supergiant and the brightest star in the constellation Orion. Last year, Jenny had become enchanted by the so-called "Goat Star," Capella, and their tree-topper had been named as such.

Usually, the deliberations went on right up until the star was mounted, but Jenny was unusually quiet as her father located it and untangled its wiring; John handed the fragile glass structure to her with gentle hands and a soft look on his face. Perhaps they'd already come to a decision about the name of this year's star.

As John lifted Jenny up into the air, the faint strains of music once more made themselves known— _I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams…_ The words brought an unexpected tear to Rose's eye, which she hastily scrubbed away. This was their home.

Or, she amended, it was _going_ to be.

She took a steadying sip of tea and watched their daughter settle the star atop the tree. No grown adult could've been more careful, more attentive to the listing and wobbling of the topmost branch upon which the ornament would sit. Jenny funneled the evergreen bough into the corkscrew which would hold the star in place and removed her little hands slowly, fingers spread, as if in a gesture of surrender.

For a moment, John just held her there. Waiting. And then he set Jenny down and slipped the plug into the outlet, sending warm light glowing forth from the star. The pair then stepped backwards in what looked like one fluid movement, both keen to observe their handiwork. They were so much _alike_ sometimes.

"What do you think, moppet?" John asked seriously.

Jenny nodded. "It's good." She was judicious with her praise, and both her parents knew when she meant it. With great gravitas, she pronounced it, " _Polaris_."

Rose's eyes flicked to John. He, too, was looking seriously at the star atop their tree.

She didn't know much about astronomy, but Rose _did_ know Polaris.

The North Star. The lodestar. The celestial guide, for all travelers who moved over the earth. They had selected a name which indicated immovability, fixedness—the star that would see them home. Rose ached as John reached around and pulled their daughter to his side, her little blonde head burrowing against his thigh.

"Polaris is a good name," she managed, her throat tight. She could see that John agreed; his face was inexpressibly tender as he looked down at his daughter and up at their guiding star—and then back at her, a faint smile on his lips.

They'd be alright, Rose decided then and there. No matter how many times they had to move—to create a new beginning in a new place—they would always have the stars as their guide. And as long as the three of them were here on Earth, they would always have each other.


	22. Plum Pudding (and Shiver)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompts: plum pudding (and shiver)  
> pairing: nine x rose (past doctor x charley)  
> rating: teen (for mild discussion of death)
> 
> _in which the doctor has a history with a classic dessert._

To Rose's way of thinking, the Doctor wasn't exactly making a great case for himself.

"No," he growled. "I _refuse_ to enter that kitchen."

"Is it the plums?" Her mum was admirably trying to muster a tone of concern and succeeding tolerably well. She put a hand on the Doctor's shoulder and stilled when he flinched back. "You know, it hasn't got any _actual_ plums in there. It's just called that, Lord knows why." She turned back to shoot Rose a worried glance. “Is he allergic or something?”

The Doctor just frowned.

For a moment, her mum almost looked chagrined. "Is it because of me? You know I don't mean anything by it, 's just a nickname." Rose clapped her hand to her mouth, holding in a laugh—but she wasn't subtle enough and the Doctor caught her eye, glaring. But the idea that he was galled by her mum’s teasing nicknames wasn’t _so_ unlikely, was it?

It had been difficult to get him into the flat in the first place; his insistence that he didn’t “do domestics,” whatever _that_ meant, was unwavering, even in the face of near death—and the fact that he owed his life to Jackie Tyler’s flirtation with a bloke called Rodrigo. But Rose had finally talked him into a sit-down Christmas dinner, if not as a token of thanks, then as an apology for almost abandoning Rose to get himself killed.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she’d imagined all sorts of diatribes on the dubious ethics of factory farming and turkey consumption. The Doctor _loved_ a good sanctimonious lecture, particularly when it came to human holidays. But what she _hadn’t_ imagined was his complete and utter horror when faced with the most innocuous of desserts: plum pudding. It wasn’t her favorite, by any stretch, but the Doctor’s revulsion rivaled that of hers when she got splashed with alien fluids or trapped three days in a jail cell without so much as a stick of deodorant.

This reaction, she felt, couldn’t possibly be simply about a classic Christmas dessert.

So, Rose crept around where her mum and the Doctor were frozen, just on the threshold of the kitchen, and shoved the plum pudding firmly out of sight. “It’s fine,” she said, over the sound of her mum’s wittering. “We can skip the plum pudding—”

The Doctor winced. _Blimey,_ he couldn’t even bear to hear the _words._

“—this year. We’ve got plenty of biscuits. See?” And then she picked up a massive tray of sugary lumps, which really looked no more appealing than the plum pudding. Using the tray as a sort of battering ram, she forced the Doctor and her mum back toward the table, where Mickey was watching the exchange with a rather pinched expression.

But the damage was done. The Doctor was edgy, bordering on snappish, even when they’d cleared the table and settled on the floor to exchange gifts. The only time his demeanor shifted even slightly was when Jackie held out a box that was clearly for him: surprise, followed swiftly by disgust when he opened the package. In his defense, Rose snickered, her mum had picked possibly the ugliest jumper in all of London.

From the satisfied look on Jackie’s face, she knew it, too.

The Plum Pudding Incident was not spoken of for the rest of the evening—not until the Doctor and Rose had re-boarded the TARDIS. She’d nicked his new reindeer-printed jumper on sight, slipping it on over her shirt, and though it was _ridiculously_ oversized, she was quite pleased with herself. Humming “Jingle Bells” in a meandering, casual fashion, Rose settled onto the jump seat and crossed her legs.

“So,” the Doctor began brusquely. “Where to?”

“ _Uh-uh_. Nope.” Rose shook her head at his incredulous stare. “Not until you tell me what’s got your knickers all in a twist.”

His gaze immediately slid away, like she was wearing a perception filter and he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. With pursed lips, he flicked a knob and the TARDIS gave a little huff, like a sigh. It was apparent she wouldn’t take off until she was damn well ready to. 

Rose silently sent her a word of gratitude.

“What are you on about?”

The Doctor wasn’t a terribly good actor, but he could do nonchalance with reasonable accuracy, and he fixed Rose with his blankest, most disinterested look.

“You know what I mean,” she prodded. “Your… averse reaction to a certain Christmas dessert?”

He cleared his throat and depressed another button—which, from Rose’s perspective on the jump seat, made no change whatsoever. “No idea what you’re talking about,” he lied. Badly.

She crossed her arms. Sighed. “The plum pudding?”

And there it was again! A shiver that traveled down his spine. A visceral look of either disgust or fear, though she couldn’t work out which was more likely.

“Ah,” he said, tone flat. “That.”

“ _Yes. That._ ”

She watched as he struggled with himself for a moment, the choice of what to tell her—and what _not_ to tell her—plainly weighing heavy on him. Eventually, he heaved a sigh and abandoned the console, coming to sit next to her on the jump seat. After another long, fraught pause, he sighed again—more expansively, his lungs surely going hollow with the force of his breath—and his head dropped forward, eyes on the floor.

“It’s not much of a story,” he said, voice low. “Just that I once found a woman—a cook, in an old Edwardian manor; solid creature, hale and healthy—dead, stuffed with her own plum pudding.”

He stopped. And he didn’t look at her. And he didn’t say anything else.

_But that’s absurd,_ Rose thought, blinking at the Doctor’s bowed head. It was _so_ absurd that it was very nearly comical. _Stuffed_ with her own plum pudding? As in, she’d overeaten herself—to _death?_ Who would do such a thing?

“Huh,” she said, rather tonelessly. “That sounds… unpleasant.”

“It was,” he agreed, hands lifting to rub over his face. “It made this horrible, sticky noise when I tried to open her mouth—to work out what was inside that had choked her. She was full of the stuff. I imagine it went all the way into her lungs.” _Oh._ Wincing, Rose tried not to imagine the picture he described, but she couldn’t help it; it was so _grotesque._ “And she had threepenny coins on her eyes—the mark of death. She’d been murdered.”

“Oh, Doctor, that’s _awful._ ”

But he just shrugged, his shoulders slack and heavy. “Lots of people died that night. Over and over. It was—” but he couldn’t seem to find the words, and so he stopped. Started again. “But I suppose the worst part is remembering _why_ I was there. I traveled with a friend, back then. Charley. You remind me of her sometimes.” 

Rose almost frowned. She’d long suspected that there were others, but for some reason, _this_ comparison stung. She couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the hope that there was something unique—something _more_ between them than friendship. Or, if not more, something— _else._ Whoever Charley was, she had no interest in reminding him of her.

She tried very hard not to give any sort of reaction.

But then the Doctor glanced up at her with a faint grin. “Mostly when you’re telling me what’s what. She could be an unholy terror sometimes. I think you would’ve liked her.” The contented expression slowly dissipated, fading into wistfulness, and Rose felt the change in the center of her chest. Pain was creeping in around the edges of his mouth, shaping it into a sad, bitter line.

Whoever Charley had been, Rose mused, the Doctor had lost her. And, strange as it was, plum pudding _reminded_ him of that loss. The flare of irritation faded as fast as it had come.

She reached over and threaded her hand into his, pulling his fingers down to her lap. “I’d love to hear about her.” It was only _mostly_ the truth. But helping him process this emotional pain seemed infinitely more important than her petty jealousy.

The Doctor shook his head. “Maybe someday. But not now. I don’t like to think of her—or,” he grimaced, “plum pudding. Brings old memories up that are better off buried.” When his fingers squeezed hers, she felt the mingled apology and gratitude there. 

Honesty did not come easily to the Time Lord—he was always so busy trying to protect people from the truth. But she didn’t need protecting, and she wanted him to know it.

“Well, there’s always me—if you want to talk,” Rose said, staring at their joined hands. She chewed her bottom lip for a moment. “If you talk about things, I think… sometimes they have less power over us. They don’t seem so awful.” Not everything could be run away from, and she’d been learning that more each day with the Doctor.

You couldn’t always outrun your feelings.

“In the meantime,” she added, taking a deep breath and flexing her fingers around his. “I’ll try to keep my mum from making any more upsetting pudding.” It wasn’t much of a sacrifice; she’d never liked plum pudding much anyway. And the thought of it stuffed down a woman’s throat had turned her off it for good. “Or, honestly, _any_ pudding. She’s not much of a baker, is she?”

Cracking a smile, the Doctor shook his head. “No. She is… many things, but—not that.”

“Oi,” she teased, “watch your mouth. Only _I_ can insult my mum.”

“Stop forcing me to eat her cooking, then.” But he looked amused more than anything, his usual vigor and bite coming back. She felt his hand twitch and released it. He wasn’t much for sitting still, and she could feel him getting impatient. To move, to go. It was his way, always. He leapt off the jump seat and made for the time rotor, a familiar gleam back in his eye. “So, where do you wanna go?”

You couldn’t always outrun your feelings, Rose thought. But _sometimes,_ you had to try. If only to keep up.

She pretended to think for a full five seconds before saying, “I think I fancy a real meal, don’t you? Maybe… chips?” She grinned, tongue touching her teeth, when the Doctor gave a dramatic roll of his eyes.

But, of course, his answer was, “Yes.” The TARDIS roared to life, pointing them in the direction of good food. And great adventure.


	23. Traditions (and Sleigh)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompts: traditions (and sleigh)  
> pairing: ten x rose  
> rating: general
> 
> _in which traditions are kept, and new ones made._

Since Rose was just a child, Jackie had always felt that Christmas wasn't Christmas until the sleigh came out. 

It wasn't a real sleigh, mind. In fact, it wasn’t a sleigh at all, but a sled—and an old, plaster one at that, missing part of its back left runner. But Rose absolutely insisted that it was a sleigh. 

Not just any sleigh, either. _Santa's_ sleigh. 

The shabby old decoration had—once upon a time—sat beneath Jackie's parents' own tree, year after year, bearing her presents dutifully. With the benefit of hindsight, the woman understood that the sleigh was mostly a way to make the space around the tree look more full—to create the impression of more abundant presents than there actually were. Still, it had a special place in her heart. It was one of the few things she'd _insisted_ on keeping, even when she'd struck out on her own and downsized to her shoebox flat. Her parents had meant to throw it out, because it was old and they had no more daughters to buy gifts for. But she'd taken it, refusing to see it discarded.

It had gotten a bit banged up in the move, of course, and every year since—Rose as a toddler was a holy terror, climbing all over it, wanting to take it outside for a "ride." She’d had a hard time impressing upon the small girl that it wasn't that sort of sleigh. It had more nicks and cracks than any sort of functioning vehicle ought to.

But despite being old, nonfunctional, and rather ugly, it was well loved, and one of things that made the holidays feel… festive. Made them feel _right._

Which was why Jackie pulled it out that year—even though Rose was missing. _Possibly dead,_ came the intrusive fear. But she discarded that idea at once, as she often had to. If Rose was dead, she staunchly maintained that she'd _know_ it. She'd feel it, like she'd felt the loss of her Dad, all those years ago.

She'd _know._

But even that certainty was small comfort as the days passed and Rose did not come home.

With quiet determination, Jackie put up their flimsy plastic tree by herself, crowding it with the ornaments that had, in previous years, been put up by her daughter’s eager hands. She nestled presents atop the sleigh, until the old decoration was almost lost in all the twinkle and glitter of paper and bows. The flat looked very festive indeed, even if Jackie didn’t feel it.

She’d gone a bit overboard, maybe, with the presents this year. There were some for the girls, a few little things for Mickey, a couple—she thought with a grin—that she'd have all to herself. Then, on the off chance, she bought a gift for the Doctor.

And, of course, there was a gift for Rose.

That one sat on top, shiny and expectant. It reflected something that Jackie didn't dare express—a hope.

A hope that her daughter would come home.

-

Of course, when Rose _did_ come home, nothing seemed to go how it should.

Mickey collided with Jackie when they reached the lot, looking desperately around for proof that they could believe their ears—that the Doctor and Rose had come back. That they would all have Christmas together, like they had nearly every year for his entire life.

And they had come back. Sort of.

To his displeasure, Rose was just the same. She was, if anything, _more_ distraught than she’d been when she left, with her brown eyes blown wide by shock and stress. She looked at the Doctor—because the collapsed man was, in fact, the Doctor—like a stranger. 

Still, he was all she looked at. 

With single-minded focus, she’d ordered Mickey to take his legs and her mum to get the doors, and they’d shuffled the alien up into the flat, where she fussed over him like a newborn baby. She barely had a moment for a “hello” and a hug, much less a classic Christmas celebration. Holiday cheer was off the table, it seemed, when the Doctor was in such awful shape.

Mickey tried to get her mind off things, bundling Rose up and dragging her to the Christmas market. It was one of his favorite traditions: he and Rose had been going for as long as they'd been allowed to strike out on their own. It wasn't a very authentic sort of market, but it was filled with lights and banners, and a band always played festive songs. One year, there had been bagpipes to nearly split their eardrums. But the spirit of Christmas, to Mickey, could be summed up entirely in this little strip of alley, shoved between storefronts and storage containers.

The first time they'd gone, when Rose was just ten or so, she didn't have any money of her own. Money in the Tyler flat had been especially tight back then, though Jackie never said anything and Rose never complained. But in a show of generosity—and because he'd recently come into a bit of paper-delivery money—he'd bought two glimmering, plastic ornaments: one for her, and one for her to give to her mum. 

Hers was shaped like a ballerina, something Rose still aspired to be at that age. Jackie's was shaped like a hairdryer.

Rose had smiled up at him, pink cheeks peeking out above her scarf, and he'd felt about ten feet tall, though he was only three years older.

"You're the best, Micks," she'd told him, looking up at him with her gap-toothed grin.

This year, when he handed her twenty quid to buy gifts, it almost felt like old times—until she started going on about the TARDIS, and the Doctor, and worrying about how he was doing back at the flat. And Mickey realized that maybe the tradition wasn't so much to do with the holiday market, or the purchasing of presents—maybe it was more to do with Rose. With being in her orbit.

He wondered if he'd ever get to feel that way again.

He hoped he might.

-

And he did. They all did.

That evening, after the world was saved, it was like everything that could possibly be right— _was._

They were gathered around the table when the Doctor walked in, and he couldn't help the broad grin that took over his face when he saw the way they all seemed to gravitate toward one another. This ritual of eating together, of celebrating, seemed almost practiced in its ease: Rose and Mickey's ribbing over who got to cut the turkey, Jackie's fussing over the table settings as if there wasn't a giant hole in the wall.

They were like a little family.

And it had been some years since he'd had anything like that. But they did it so naturally; he wondered if they even knew.

But then, Jackie sat him down on the sofa—pride of place for the recovering hero, though he was _perfectly fine_ and insistently told her so—and started dispersing gifts. They looked rather silly, perched atop a crumbling old sled, but then Rose whispered to him that it was "Santa's sleigh, so don't you say a word. It's _tradition_." 

Jackie had beamed at that. It seemed there was a story there.

But then, everything had a story. How he'd gotten here, into this flat, nestled beside a bright and beaming young woman with the light of the stars in her eyes—that was a story. How she’d grown up to become the brilliant woman she was—that was a story. How he'd ended up part of this odd little family of humans, two of whom barely even liked him— _that was certainly a story,_ he thought as Mickey handed him a lager with a good-natured nudge. 

How he'd gotten this body and how he planned to use it—that was an incredible story, so much of which was yet to be written.

The Doctor looked around the flat, which would need to be set to rights before he and Rose left. He watched the Queen's address, which aired late and stayed brief, having been overshadowed by the Prime Minister’s press conference. He helped clean up the dinner table, enjoying the suds that floated and landed on his duster, and he gently pulled tinsel from Rose's hair. He listened to Jackie’s story about the sled, and to Mickey’s teasing that Rose owed him twenty quid.

So many little, human things.

And he thought that maybe, if he was lucky, this could become a tradition. A piece of his story.

He certainly hoped so.


	24. Midnight (and Countdown)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: midnight (and countdown)  
> pairing: twelve x rose  
> rating: mature (language)
> 
> _in which rose performs a random act of kindness on new year’s eve._

The last day of the year is a mess of Christmas gift returns and exchanges. It seems like every shopper has some excuse as to why they don't have their receipt, or refuse to accept store credit, or why they’d prefer to speak to a manager, _if you please._

But Rose does _not_ please.

Adam’s out “sick” _again,_ and though she could try to fetch a higher-up from some other department to tell the customer the same shit she's already told them, she prefers to handle things herself. She’s worked there longer than almost any of the others, and even Lucie—a firecracker, who can hold her own in any circumstance—has started directing problems her way instead of depending on the off-chance that Adam's around.

And because she’s good at her job, Rose's well-worn Customer Service Smile doesn’t slip as she handles complaint after complaint, exchange after exchange. She banters and commiserates and, when necessary, keeps her mouth shut. By the end of the day, though, she's stretched about as thin as the cotton-poly-blend jumpers they sell off the racks.

“I need a rise,” she mutters to herself, cashing out her register. Across at one of the other counters, a coworker shoots her a look—one of camaraderie, weighed down the familiar fatigue of shop-workers everywhere. Rose rolls her eyes and grins back.

She’s one of the last ones out tonight, but she doesn’t mind this part so much. Closing up on her own.

Rose likes being in the store after the windows go dark, when only the emergency lighting is on to guide her through the rows and rows of unbought clothes. Not that she _needs_ the light; she could walk the floor with her eyes closed and name each section, besides. But even after all these months, closing up shop still feels like she’s doing something a little mischievous—like she’s breaking the rules by being there after dark.

She lets her fingers slip lightly across the clothes like she might run her hands through falling water. The changing textures bid her goodnight, and the solitary quiet grounds her.

Rose's footsteps are light as she walks through the glass doors, pausing to punch in the code that will lock them behind her.

As she turns to take her normal route home, he catches her eye. A body in a black coat and festive plaid plants. Chaotic, curly grey hair, hunched posture. He's sat on the concrete, next to an open guitar case, long legs bent a bit at the knee. A busker. And, unlike most nights, he's strumming still as she closes the shop.

She's seen him before, of course, as he's packed up his guitar to go for the night. They've passed a few times, like ships in the dark—only barely aware of one another. But tonight, he's still playing for the lingering traffic on the street, and for the several pedestrians who are still strolling by at ten o'clock on New Year's Eve.

She recognises the tune, but more importantly, the raspy rumble of his voice gives her pause. " _What are you doing New Year's, New Year's Eve?_ " He sounds wistful, like he's singing to himself without expectation of answer, and each word comes out on a puff of warm breath, which billows white into the darkness.

Acting on some unforeseen impulse, Rose pauses in front of the man and his open guitar case. And he pauses, too, looking up to give her a little nod and a look that approaches—but does not quite manage to be—a smile. It is the same polite sort of look she’d exchanged with her coworker: the look of someone who shares a commute or has worked the same job, recognizing a sense of mutuality. Like nodding at like.

Still strumming, he says, "Evening."

"Evening," she replies, reaching awkwardly into her handbag to dig for some change. She never has much to spare—usually, she saves her 50p coins for laundry days—but it's still the holidays and she can afford it, this once.

The change is in her fist, ready to be dropped, when the tempo of his playing slows. "You're late closing tonight," he comments casually.

Rose goes still. The coins have started to warm in her palm. "Sorry? Are you— _watching_ me?"

The man cracks a proper smile at that, as if she's told a good joke. It's crooked, higher on one side, and manages to be simultaneously impish and kindly. "Not particularly," he answers. "But I'm out here a lot in the evenings."

"Right," she says, in an absence of any reply that makes the least bit of sense. Tucking her hand back into her bag, the coins scatter, making little pinging noises. It would be too awkward to give them now. The falling metal sounds oddly musical against the backdrop of his guitar strings.

"I like to hang around until the shops close," he explains, eyes dropping back down to his instrument. "Make sure everyone leaves safely. I once heard this story in the news about a big department store exploding—there was an electrical malfunction or something." He makes a "boom" sort of sound with his mouth, hands momentarily leaving the strings to mimic the shape of a mushroom cloud. Just as quickly, he goes back to strumming—the chords still forming that familiar tune.

"But wouldn't you just get blown up with everyone else?" Rose, strangely, finds herself entertaining this man's story. "What could you _possibly_ do?"

He shrugs. "Help. I was a doctor once."

"But you're not now?" she asks, narrowing her eyes.

"No." He strikes a sour note, which muddies the whole chord, and she sees the grimace that momentarily flickers over his face. He corrects it, playing on without skipping a beat.

"So, you just hang around the shops, singing songs, in case someone needs… help?" Rose says, tone laden with scepticism. She doesn't quite understand why she hasn't walked away. The busker—though he's well-dressed and well-mannered enough—is clearly an odd sort of character, and she doesn't have time to sort him out tonight. She has celebrating to get to.

Still, she waits for an answer.

He huffs amusedly, shaking his head. "I play the songs because I like to. I stay late for the... other reason." _In case someone needs help_. But he doesn't say that. His eyes have returned to his guitar strings.

"Right," she says. Yet again, she is at a loss for what sort of answer he might expect. "That's…" _Crazy._ "—kind of you."

He shrugs. The chords shift. _Maybe I'm crazy to suppose I'd ever be the one you chose…_ Those are the words he ought to be singing, but he isn't. He just hums loosely over the strumming.

"Aren't you cold?" Rose blurts out, not sure where the thought came from. He's wearing a nice sort of coat, but no gloves. No scarf. He ought to at _least_ have a scarf, she thinks. Though, again, she isn't sure why she cares, when she’s hardly ever noticed him before. He’s here all the time—not every day, but often.

She’s never considered him being cold before.

When he glances up at her, his smile is uneven and honest. "It's December in London," he replies carelessly. "'Course I'm cold."

Once again, she is moving in spite of her confusion—in response to an odd feeling of restless desire. In a swift motion, Rose tugs the scarf from around her neck. It's a saffron yellow knit, more fashionable than sturdy, but it ought to give him _some_ protection from the dropping temperatures. Like the change, she lingers with it in her clenched hand.

 _I should go,_ she insists to herself. _So he can go, too._

She drops the scarf into the open guitar case. "Happy New Year," she says, all in a rush, and then she takes off walking, far too quickly to look natural. She doesn't look back. And he doesn't stop playing; she can still hear him singing in the distance.

" _Ah, but in case I stand one little chance, here comes the jackpot question in advance: What are you doing New Year's, New Year's Eve?_ "

-

Rose stops by the flat to change and give her mum a kiss, since she won’t be around at midnight. Not by her own doing, of course: she’s been banished from the place, since Howard’s coming over. She _loathes_ Howard, but her mum loves him, and so—she gives them the gift of space.

Anyway, Shareen has a couch and a coffee machine, which will do nicely for a start to the new year. She slips an extra pair of knickers and a t-shirt into her handbag, gives her lippy one last check, and heads out for the night with a spring in her step.

They meet outside on the street under a falling curtain of snow, and Rose immediately locks a shivery, leather-clad arm around her friend. Like everything else she gets with her employee discount, her coat is designed for fashion rather than function.

"Where's your scarf?" Shareen teases, pulling her even closer as they hurry into the shelter of the pub. It's an old favourite of theirs—where they'd first tried out their fake IDs, where they'd both gotten sloshed for the first time. It's been a while since they've been back, though, and Rose notices all the little ways it's changed.

It's a tiny bit trendier than she remembers; everyone around is dressed in a cool, almost uncaring sort of way. She feels overdone in her leather jacket, but is at least grateful that she’d opted out of heels. The cheap platform karaoke stage has been repurposed into something a sight more professional-looking, though it seems that they've arrived between sets, based on the empty barstool and guitar in its stand. And the prices have gone up, though that's nothing new.

The girls make their way to the bar, having to shove a little to get through the holiday crowd. Shareen orders drinks for them both as Rose scouts out a place for them to sit and watch the music—it's not standing room only, but it's close. They find a cramped little table and settle in with their drinks, taking advantage of their perfect sight-line of the whole room.

Shareen is an avid people-watcher—she used to keep Rose in _stitches_ when they got stuck in assemblies—and before they’ve made it even halfway through their drinks, they’ve come up with plenty of mischief to entertain themselves. Observations and theories, mostly. The elaborately-constructed story of how someone came to be wearing that _horrible_ hat, or their best guess at the barman’s internal commentary on the girls who attempt to ply him for free drinks.

They whisper back and forth to each other, hiding smiles behind their hands, same as they’ve always done. It makes Rose feel fifteen again.

“That date is going _nowhere_ fast,” she says under her breath, gesturing vaguely in the direction of a couple in a cozy booth, though they look anything _but_ cozy _._ The bloke is chatting a mile a minute, and his date—who is dressed up _far_ too posh for a place on this side of the city in her Barbour coat and tall boots—is continually stirring her martini with the tip of one sharp, manicured finger, ignoring him.

“She could probably spear the olive with that thing,” comes Shareen’s contribution, and they both stifle their giggles. But Rose looks up right in time to see someone take the stage—and her laughter stops cold in her mouth.

If she hadn’t recognized the silvery hair, the curls, the plaid pants, the lanky limbs, she _certainly_ would have recognized the accessory around his neck, blazing like a golden sunset under the meagre stage lights. “Oh my God,” she half-laughs. "That's my scarf."

Her friend whirls, eyes wide, and takes in the man Rose is staring at. "What, like—he _stole_ it?" She's already half out of her seat, ready to, presumably, rip it from his neck right there on stage, but Rose grabs her arm.

"No!" She laughs again, shaking her head. "No, I gave it to him."

The look she gets in reply is one of incredulity—which makes sense, really. It _had_ been a strange, impetuous sort of decision.

"I saw him playing outside the shops," Rose replies as he slides the guitar strap over his shoulder and starts tuning, "and I asked him if he was cold. He said 'yes,' so—I gave him—"

His voice rises from the mic, dry and familiar. That same flicker of humor, like he finds it in everything. "Evening, everybody."

"—gave him my scarf," she says, voice dropping. Her eyes don't move as she releases Shareen's arm, watching him settle and shift. He doesn't sit on the stool so much as lean against it, and he adjusts the mic, moving it a little closer to his face, talking conversationally all the while—like he does this every night. _He probably does,_ she realizes.

"I won't ask how you lot are doing tonight, because you look pished. Gorgeous," he adds, winking down at someone in the front, "but pished."

A feminine voice calls something back to him, but she can't make it out, because Shareen has leaned close to whisper in her ear. "He's sort of fit."

Rose would blush, except the alcohol she’s drunk already has her face in a state of permanent glow. As if to combat the blood occupying her cheeks, she takes another deliberate, dignified sip, wondering what he'll play. _What are you doing New Year's…_

“I guess so,” she whispers back, nonchalant.

He fiddles with his strings a bit more, and then strums a few times, the warm sound of his guitar spreading through the pub. The faint hisses of shushing fill in the edges, and it all feels like one sound. The people, the pub, the playing. "I'm Iain," he begins, "but you already know that. I'm gonna play a few songs for you tonight. At least until midnight, when we'll bring the lights down and you lot can… I dunno, _canoodle_ in peace—that alright?"

He _must_ play here often, because the response is immediate and enthusiastic. He strums a few more times, letting the hush fall again—and then begins to play, slow and steady.

Rose doesn't recognize this one, but that doesn't stop her from eagerly listening, leaning forward on her elbows as he leans close to the mic and sings. " _If we make it through December, everything's gonna be alright, I know…_ "

Now that it's not being swallowed by the sounds of a busy street, she can really appreciate the timbre of his voice. It's lovely and warm, laying over the room like a warm coat. She can hear his accent in every word; it makes the song feel familiar, somehow, even though she's sure she's never heard it.

" _It’s the coldest time of winter_ ," he tells the room, " _and I shiver when I see the falling snow..._ "

"I bet he's single," Shareen whispers. "He looks single, doesn't he?" Rose looks at her in confusion for a moment before understanding dawns. Her friend is still in people-watching mode, and she's prepared to theorize about the "fit" musician for his entire set. _Shit._

"How should I know?" she whispers back.

"Well, seeing how he's wearing your _clothes_ —"

"Shut up," Rose hisses, biting back a grin.

Shareen goes silent for a while, leaving Rose to enjoy the music in the peace, which is as much an embarrassment as a relief. They both finish their drinks, and Shareen scurries off to get them another round—though they'll have to make this one last until midnight, what with the prices in this place.

She hasn't made it back yet when he finishes the song—to a healthy amount of applause, some cheers—and starts on another one. A bit uptempo, a driving beat that makes her pulse quicken. " _I'd say you make a perfect angel in the snow…_ "

Rose grins to herself; it seems he's got a solid repertoire of non-holiday-specific winter songs.

Not surprising, considering he has all day to spend practicing them outside the shop. His fingers fly over the strings.

" _Don't you know that I love you? Sometimes I feel like only a cold still life that fell down to lay here beside you. Don't you know—_ "

He sings, and his eyes flick up from his guitar—to connect with hers.

" _—that I love you?_ "

She's almost surprised when he doesn't miss a beat: there's not the faintest hint of wrongness in his notes, not so much as a tremble in his voice. The only sign that he recognises her at all is the slow, intentional arch of an eyebrow. And then he looks away again, eyes scanning the crowd before returning to his instrument.

For a second, she feels— _disappointed?_ Like she'd wanted to be noticed, or to provoke some sort of reaction, though wanting those things makes no sense. They're almost complete strangers; she couldn't possibly have _expected_ anything more than that.

As he finishes the song, Shareen reappears with two more drinks. "Christ," she sighs, "I think the barman has it out for me—he took an age. But there was this _gorgeous_ girl—"

Rose shushes her, pointing to the stage.

Her friend's answering grin is surprised, and then sly. _Sorry_ , she mouths. And then she looks up and waggles her eyebrows at the man— _Iain_ , Rose thinks, the name like a little jolt in her mind.

But then the song is over, and Shareen's silence is no longer necessary. "Never knew you were such a groupie, babe," she teases, conveniently ignoring the year Rose spent trailing Jimmy Stone like a dog on a leash. For which Rose is immensely grateful. This isn't like Jimmy at all.

 _This isn't_ like _anything, because it_ isn't _anything,_ she decides.

And then he's talking again.

"I think we're getting close to midnight, ladies and gents." A cheer goes up. "This last song," he says, pausing to fiddle with his guitar a bit more. The actions are incomprehensible to her non-musical brain, but Rose still finds herself fascinated by the movements of his fingers. "This last song goes out to a girl I just met, who was kind enough to help a stranger." He cracks a smile—crooked, a little bit wry—and while the crowd titters, Rose feels her heart leap into her throat. "She asked if I was cold—"

"Oh my _God,_ " Shareen whispers. Rose can feel her friend's fingernails digging into her sleeve. “Rose?”

"—and then she gave me this scarf." He reaches up and tugs on the scarf where it hugs his throat. Warm yellow against his black coat.

"Rose, is he—"

"I'm pretty sure she thought I was homeless, poor thing."

More laughter. Rose's cheeks feel as if they might be on fire. She can't be sure they're not. Her fingers are locked so tight around her bottle of lager that she's slightly concerned the glass will shatter.

"But by complete chance," he continues, tuning his guitar once again, "she happens to be here tonight. _I know,_ ” he adds, in response to the _ooh-_ ing of the crowd. “What are the odds? So, I thought I'd say thank you—with a song."

And then, he starts strumming a cheerful tune on the guitar—definitely the most upbeat song by far. Within a few chords, she's smiling fit to light up the bar. Shareen seems equally pleased, emitting happy squeals every few seconds, gripping Rose's arm like a lifeline.

"Also," he pauses, flashing her a quick and conspiratorial grin, "don't panic about the lyrics, love."

"I think I'm gonna pass out," Shareen informs her. Rose nods her agreement. _That grin,_ she thinks, _should be registered as a deadly weapon._

And then—

" _The warmth of your love's like the warmth of the sun,_ " he sings brightly, looking so unlike the maudlin man she's seen thus far that she’s taken aback, her mouth falling open. In fact, he's so cheerful that she's _pretty_ sure he's having her on, but for some reason, she isn't bothered when he's saying, " _and this will be our year, took a long time to come._ "

Shareen giggles. "Yeah, definitely gonna pass out."

" _Don't let go of my hand, now darkness has gone. This will be our year, took a long time to come…_ " She can hardly control herself—her limbs feel stuttery and strange, and she keeps feeling tempted to stand up and start walking. Toward the stage? Toward the door? She can't decide.

The crowd seems to be enjoying the performance, too, as some particularly raucous patrons take up dancing in front of the stage. Rose covers her mouth with her hand to hold in the odd euphoria she feels when he sings, " _Darling, I love you, you gave me faith to go on. Now we're there, and we've only just begun…_ "

The lights dip, and there's a murmur that rises along with the music—excitement at the prospect of the coming midnight. The end of an old year, and the start of a new one.

_This will be our year._

_Don't be mental,_ she chides herself. But then, Shareen is squeezing her arm and leaning in again.

"He can't take his eyes off you," she whispers. "You’re being eye-fucked. Get _up_ there. Go." In a daze, Rose finds herself obeying—getting down off her barstool—walking toward the stage. She doesn't have a plan for when she gets there; she just slips through the crowd, fiddling with the edges of her sleeves.

The song goes on, changing keys, and once again the lights flicker. Someone in the crowd starts to chant, and Iain plays gamely on. " _This will be our year, took a long time to come,_ " he sings, as people begin the countdown.

_Ten. Nine. Eight._

Rose's pulse hammers against her ribs, and she has to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing.

_Seven. Six. Five._

From the stage, he winks at her. She's close enough that she can see the light glinting off of his eyelashes.

_Four. Three. Two._

" _Yeah, we’ve only just begun_ —”

_One._

_“This will be our year—_ "

She jumps up onto the stage—it's easy with the adrenaline racing through her body—and the house lights plummet, replaced by the flicker of gold strobes.

He's still playing the song out, strumming but not singing. Smiling, but not speaking.

 _Happy New Year!_ All around her, the air is full of celebratory cries.

It's midnight.

"Happy New Year," Rose tells him—she's barely aware that the mic picks up her voice—and then she does quite possibly the most absurd thing she's ever done in her twenty-six years of life.

She leans forward and she kisses him.

A complete stranger with a guitar and her scarf. She grabs him by his hair and presses her mouth to his, like that's a normal thing that normal people do.

The music stops immediately—she'd almost forgotten he was the one making it—and a number of things happen at once. The guitar shifts out from between him and onto his back, and then both of his hands are on her hips, holding her steady while she rocks forward on her toes. New music comes from somewhere—from the house speakers—playing _Auld Lang Syne._

There is cheering, still—more. People have noticed her arrival onstage. His lips shift against hers, and it occurs to her that she is being kissed back—that she is being kissed back _well_ —

But she breaks away for a moment to offer what feels like an important piece of information at this stage. "My name's Rose."

He graces her with an almost smile, eyes sparkling. "Rose." The way he says it makes her toes curl, and she nods once. And then she's being kissed—being kissed _so_ well—again. She can't keep track of her arms; they're moving without her permission, winding up around his neck and pulling the scarf away, and she feels her back bend like a bow as all reason flees her body. She never wants to stop.

But she _has_ to stop. The crowd noise reaches a new high, and they break apart to see that they're being cheered on by the entire place. Shareen, with her arm slung around a tall, statuesque ginger girl, smiles and waves from the back, catcalling like the _brilliant_ friend she is. And Rose starts to blush again at the impossibility of this—the _absurdity_ —

Iain leans toward the mic. "Thanks, everybody, and Happy New Year," is his sign off, and then she's being grabbed by the hand—ushered off stage and down through the crowd—to the back of the bar—through a door that leads— _somewhere,_ she doesn't actually care—and then they're kissing again—and then, when her back hits a wall, she starts giggling.

"This is _not_ how I envisioned my night going," she says, grappling to get her arms up around his neck again. The skin there is warm and soft and she shivers at the contact.

"Me neither," he admits. Brushing a kiss to her jaw, he leans in and whispers, "I imagined my neck being _far_ colder."

 _This will be our year,_ she thinks—a fleeting, mad, New Year's wish as he kisses her breathless. _This will be—_


	25. Crackers (and Joy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompts: crackers (and joy)  
> pairing: pete x jackie, ten x rose  
> rating: general
> 
> _in which all is not calm, but all is most certainly bright._

A universe away, a family is celebrating.

She can picture it, if she closes her eyes.

A man at the head of the table—ginger and balding, with a brow that furrows when he smiles—and a blonde woman at his right, cutting him a slice of pie and licking the melty whipping cream from her fingers. Their smiles are the communicative sort, born from years of shared stories, of mutual memories.

Beside the woman is a baby chair containing a squirming toddler, who reaches for the delicious dessert with both hands. His disappointment when he does not receive the delicacy is profound, sending him into a squall of tears, which can only be comforted by a mother's touch.

The woman pulls him down and into her lap, making gentle hushing sounds—sounds that are familiar in their sweetness, with just the slight bite of impatience. Having gotten closer to the table and to the tantalizing pie, the young boy reaches out once more, his chubby hand grasping the Christmas cracker that rests beside the nearest plate. Its bright wrappings are no doubt an object of fascination, and in a sudden change of heart, he abandons his aspirations of pie in exchange for a solid, determined grip on the cracker, tugging it down off the table.

When it falls into the woman’s lap, she sighs. “I’ve no idea why you bought these,” she fondly chides the man at the head of the table. “For just the three of us and all! Though—gives Tony something to do, I suppose.” For a moment, she smiles down at the curious Tony, who holds the cracker between his two hands. He attempts to pry the thing apart, but doesn’t have the knack of it. After all, he’s pulling on entirely the wrong bits.

“I didn’t buy them, Jacks,” the man replies, eyebrows arched. “I thought you did.”

“‘Course I didn’t! What would I do that for, buying a whole box and only using three! It’s wasteful, that’s what it is.” Wastefulness, of course, is something she used to abhor, but is now coming to terms with. It is a fundamental piece of her new life, though she fights it where she can.

The man shrugs. “Must’ve been one of the maids. They've got used to trying to cheer me up at the holidays.” He seems marvelously unbothered.

At this, Jackie purses her lips in an attitude of clear disapproval. “Well, I suppose we at least ought to open them. Here, sweetheart,” she coos, correcting her son’s grip on the cracker. Then she cradles both of his pudgy hands in hers and uses her own strength to pull the thing apart, keeping it well away from his face. The sharp _crack_ as it breaks still surprises him, though, and his mouth screws up in surprise. “There, there, s’alright. See? There’s something inside for you.”

When she tilts the broken wrapping, a piece of paper slides out. It’s curled like a riddle or a poem, and Jackie huffs. “I always hated these ones. You read it, Pete.” She deposits the piece of paper carelessly into the man’s hands and goes back to stopping her son from getting his sticky fingers into the pie.

“‘ _You are the son of the best people on Earth,_ ’” the man says, his voice faltering before it continues. “‘ _Never forget that you’re made from the stardust of two universes. Your future—_ ’” His eyes flick up to his wife, who has gone extremely still, despite the wriggling boy in her lap. Pete swallows. “‘ _Your future is so bright that we can see it from here_.’ Jackie?” His voice trembles.

“How do they…?” She whispers, the sentence fading into a fragment. And then, a realization. “There are others! We’ve got to—”

But her husband has already sprung into action, pulling his cracker open so quickly that there’s barely even a snap, and then he’s reading: “‘ _See, now you’re getting it. Always knew you were the clever sort. Merry Christmas, Pete._ ’ There’s more,” he cries, holding the curled paper out to Jackie. “‘ _P.S. Congratulations on your upcoming retirement. Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty to keep your hands full._ ’”

Trembling, Jackie’s hand rises to cover her mouth. “Oh my God,” she whispers. “It’s them.” She doesn’t know how it’s possible—or why it’s happening—but it doesn’t matter to her as much as the fact that it _is_. Impossibly. Wonderfully. With her other hand, she reaches for the third and final Christmas cracker, waiting cheerfully on the table.

She barely has the strength to pull it open, so complete is her shock. But it yields with a _crack,_ and out tumbles another identical sheet of paper.

Jackie unfurls it. And then reads.

_Hi, Mum._

_Merry Christmas!_

_Don’t ask how, it would take too long. And don’t forget what you promised—no tears over me, unless they’re ones of joy._

_We miss you._

_P.S. Congratulations on that new job! You'll be the best party planner in the universe. We only wish you could plan our wedding._

_P.P.S. Just tell Pete. He won't be angry. I promise._

"What's it say?"

Jackie has a hard time re-reading the note through the tears in her eyes, but she manages it. Sniffing, she says, "Rose told me not to cry—unless they were... tears of joy." And as they run down her face, Tony reaches up with his small hand, attempting to cheer her up by thrusting his fingers into her nose and mouth.

"And what are these, then?" Pete reaches across the table to take one of her hands in his, squeezing softly.

"I'm just so glad she's alright," she cries. "The pair of them. They couldn't send a message if they weren't. Oh, Pete—" and then her words turn into soundless gasps, her tears mingling with her laughter. He catches her—he always does—as she falls forward into his arms, Tony pressed between them, making happy little mumbles at being held by _both_ of his favorite people.

And in that way, the pie goes cold.

-

A universe away, she wakes up.

His face is the first thing she sees: speckled with freckles and moles, each sweetly familiar. "Good morning, love."

It's always jarring, returning after these dreams. In a sense, it's because they're _not_ dreams—the Doctor calls them her "wanderings," when she moves between the timelines, between worlds. Between universes, occasionally. But they aren't really _her_ wanderings, either. They belong to something— _else._ Something she shares space with.

But sometimes, she believes that what she sees is so beautifully, intentionally meant for her eyes.

She smiles at him. "It was Christmas Day."

"Yeah?" He takes her hand into his and kisses her palm, his breath warm on her skin. "Did they have trifle? I _love_ trifle."

Giggling, she shakes her head. "No, Mum always makes pie. But they were happy. And they had some… very _specific_ messages inside their Christmas crackers," she informs him, arching her brows. "I suppose we'll have to take care of that."

"I suppose," the Doctor agrees. "Though I've no idea how."

Undaunted, she turns over the scene in her mind. Her memories. "Pete's retiring. Right in time, too, since Mum's got a new job as an event planner." She turns her face into his shoulder and takes a deep, comforting breath. He smells like their bedsheets. "He'll love staying home with Tony."

"I'm sure he will. He missed fatherhood the first time 'round."

His words spark something in the back of her brain—a loose connection, and she has to struggle to capture the thought. _Missed. Fatherhood._

And—

_We can see it from here._

Rose sets her chin on the Doctor's shoulder and looks up at the angle of his jaw—at his bedhead and his face puffed from sleep. Affection curls warmly in her belly.

"Doctor," she starts, carefully. "There was something I wrote to Tony—it made me think—something I've dreamed before…"

If she's not making sense, the Doctor doesn't notice. He just continues planting gentle kisses into her palm, each one sending little vines of contentment down her arm, softening her sleep-loosened muscles even further.

"Mm?"

"Doctor, who is—Jenny?"

That gets his attention. The touches come to a sudden stop.

"Because… I think we're meant to find her." It's impossible for her to describe: attempting to articulate the millions upon millions of almosts and perhapses would only make a mess of things, and so she settles for the simplest way of putting it. "She shouldn't be alone on Christmas."

Rose knows that for a certainty.

Jenny finding her way through the void—finding Tony—reuniting their families—

All of that is _potential_. A series of possibilities. They coalesce into a leading line, yes, but it is still up to _them_ to follow. None of that will happen if they don't take the first step.

The Doctor continues to stare at her, gobsmacked. Rose finds herself grinning, tongue between her teeth, like she always does when she's managed to shock the Doctor. The longer they're together, the less it seems possible to surprise him, and yet, the more it seems to happen.

His expression settles it. Whoever Jenny is, she's important to him, and she's important to their future—to her little brother's future.

It's her turn to take his hand between hers. She presses a kiss to his knuckle. "Let's go find her," she whispers.

And so it begins.


End file.
